The truth of it was that by changing my spots, I accused him. And he knew it. He was uncomfortable. Even as we sat in the inn, brothers and knights would come in from exercise, or divine office, or mounting guard, with many a pleasant word, or the benison, or a saint’s name on their lips. I had grown used to the company of men who used courtesy at all hours — d’Albret still lived in the world from which I had come. Even when he swore, he did so only to try me.
I shrugged. Again. D’Albret seemed to be trying to say something; he kept rising to it, and then slipping away. ‘I enjoy serving the Order,’ I said. ‘Have another cup of wine.’
‘What do they pay?’ he sneered.
‘Your family is rich enough,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you pay the fee and become a volunteer?’
He looked at me as if I’d just made a lewd suggestion and he was a nun. ‘I fight for gold,’ he said. ‘What can your Order do for me?’
‘Why are you come on crusade, then?’ I asked.
He laughed, leaning his stool back on two of its legs and stretching his booted feet towards the unnecessary fire. ‘To be rich!’ he said.
‘Not to travel to Jerusalem?’ I asked.
‘Not unless the streets are actually paved with gold,’ he laughed.
Despite my new-found maturity, he was beginning to get to me. He meant to, and when they set themselves to it, Gascons can be the most offensive men in the world. Perhaps even when they do not set themselves to it.
‘This crusade is just a chevauchee?’ I asked.
D’Albret grinned. ‘There’s no war in France and not much in Italy since Hawkwood got beaten. They paid us to leave Provence, and then they paid us to winter at Venice, and now we’ll take a few Saracen cities and despoil them and go home rich as bankers. It was this or Spain.’ He looked into the distance. ‘Or perhaps when this is done, I’ll go to Spain. There’s to be fighting there. I hadn’t expected this misbegotten expedition to take so long.’
I started to speak, but he rode over me.
‘It’s the fucking peasant the Pope sent. He knows nothing of war — a total fool. Can you imagine? An actual serf off Talleyrand’s estates, pretending to command men. The Pope wanted this expedition to fail.’
I had finally understood that he meant Father Pierre. ‘The legate?’ I said. ‘Without him, there would be no crusade. Don’t be a fool, d’Albret. Whatever his birth, he’s no peasant.’
D’Albret laughed his older brother’s nasty laugh. ‘Once a serf, always a serf. They flinch when you snap your fingers.’
I could imagine what Father Pierre would say if I fought a duel for his good name. So I took a deep breath, looked elsewhere, and finally rose. ‘We will have to agree to disagree,’ I said. ‘I see him as a great man, a living saint.’
D’Albret spat. ‘Well, the problem will be solved for us soon enough, or that’s what I hear. The Serf — that’s what we call him — has given offence to certain parties, eh?’
‘Who do you mean? And how will the problem be solved?’ I asked. I had been about to slap money on the table and walk away, but I knew a threat to my lord when I heard it.
D’Albret looked both smug and superior. ‘I just know the Serf will be gone soon. And then we will have a good war, and booty. That’s what everyone says.’ He shook his head. ‘When you killed that French bastard who stole your sword in the spring? I told everyone I knew you. I was proud to know you, eh? What happened? Priests take your stones? I heard d’Herblay beat the crap out of you. He says you are a coward.’
Before I knew it, my hand was on my hilt.
He laughed. ‘So you are still alive,’ he said.
‘You serve d’Herblay,’ I said. It was obvious. He wore the blue and white arms.
‘He’s not so bad. Better than the Bourc. The money’s good.’ He shrugged. ‘He’ll kill you, William. When the legate’s gone you had best hide.’
It was a busy day. D’Albret wasn’t gone a heartbeat before Nicolas Sabraham occupied his stool. From his look at d’Albret’s departing arrogance, I immediately understood his interest.
‘He claims there’s a threat to the legate,’ I said.
Sabraham laughed. He didn’t laugh often, and his contempt was obvious. ‘The French have ten plots going to kill the legate,’ he said. ‘All talk. They are the most hopeless conspirators, and the most pompous.’
‘D’Herblay is here,’ I said.
Sabraham knew that. ‘What I came to tell you,’ he said. ‘You show promise in this role, Sir William.’
‘Why do they hate him so much?’ I asked.
Sabraham sighed. ‘His birth. Their fears. They were raised to hate peasants, now a peasant will be Pope.’
‘I find I am not as close to young d’Albret as I once was,’ I said. ‘But I might be able to learn more — perhaps to turn him. He was a good man once.’
Sabraham put out a hand to stop me. ‘No. I know all I need to know about the Gascons and the French. Although, if we take Jerusalem with those men, it will, I promise you, be entirely due to the will of God.’
I winced. ‘They are good men-at-arms,’ I said.
Sabraham shrugged. ‘They are thugs in armour. I’d prefer to use the Mamluks to exterminate them. In fact, I sometimes suspect that was the Holy Father’s intention all along. No, I am not here for your Gascons. I’m here for your Turk. May I meet him? Fra William says he is quite the marvel.’
I summoned John — more arrow repair in the yard — and bought him a cup of wine. He never made any fuss about wine, and I find that many easterners will drink it. But that is beside the point.
Sabraham spoke to him in Turkish. In minutes, they were speaking quickly, a veritable barrage of words, guttural and liquid.
Sabraham dismissed my servant back to his ‘work’ and leaned back. ‘What a treasure,’ he said. ‘A fine man. You are very lucky. His people take death-debt very seriously. And he thinks you are a priest of Christ. His theology is a little weak, but you won’t suffer for it. I must go … I hear he’s a famous archer?’
‘He is, too,’ I admitted.
Sabraham nodded. ‘Soon, Sir William, we’ll get to see what this crusade is made of. An archer who speaks good Kipchak may be the best asset we have.’
A few days later, early in September, I believe, Miles stood the vigil before knighthood. We had a fine ceremony, and after vigil in the knights’ chapel of the Order, we heard Mass. Vigil in armour is a complex form of penance; the armour both supports and fatigues you, and as you tire, the plates of your knees begin to press harder into your kneecaps, and if I’d had a little less wine, I’d make a moral of that. But I won’t. Emile came. We touched hands at the holy-water font — I dipped my hand for water, and she put her hand in atop mine, taking her water from the backs of my fingers.
Oh, it sounds like nothing, but I still flush to tell it.
‘When you sail,’ she said softly, ‘I must stay here. The comte is here.’
There was no time to question her. We moved apart. But Father Pierre told me that the non-military pilgrims and the women would stay at Rhodes while the crusade attacked, and when we had seized Jerusalem, we would send for them.
I wanted to see her again. Her face was before me all the time, and she was only six streets away. Finally, I summoned my courage and sent Marc-Antonio to the nuns with a note. He had a way with nuns — it was his innocent countenance.
Thanks to that note, we began to plot our meeting. Emile suggested a church — Rhodes is full of churches, and some nearly deserted, especially after compline. We sent back and forth a date, a time, a place. It was delicious to correspond every day. I would fly home from the drill field, strip my armour and look for a note. Sometimes Marc-Antonio would put it into my gauntleted hand while I was still mounted. Some days there was no note at all.
One day she sent ‘Be careful — you have more to lose than I.’
That seemed odd.