The Green Count Page 4

  ‘I was doing penance for my sins,’ Father Pierre Thomas said. I swear he sounded pettish – he, who was always patient. That was the first indication I had that he really was sick, and in pain.

  ‘What sins?’ I said. I hadn’t meant to speak, but the words blurted out of me.

  Father Pierre Thomas’s eyes seemed to catch fire – not with anger, though, but with amusement. ‘Ah, William Gold, I have sins. I may not wear them on my sleeve as you do, but they are there, and every one of them petty, venal, foolish, and human. Even now I feel anger that none of you will leave me in peace to say prayers that need to be said, for my soul, my own peace of mind, and all the souls of all the poor devils who died at Alexandria.’

  De Mézzières frowned. ‘They were crusaders,’ he said. ‘They died in the army of Christ.’

  ‘Many souls were riven from bodies that were not crusaders,’ Father Pierre Thomas said gently. ‘Men, women, children; Jews and gentiles and Moslems. All dead now.’ He voice caught. ‘And I led you there,’ he said, softly but clearly.

  I knew what he meant, even if de Mézzières was too much a creature of the Cypriote court to allow that Arabs and Jews had souls and were men. Fra Peter glanced at me and his eyes bid me hold my tongue.

  It was, for me, the beginning of a … change. A gulf that opened gradually, between me and many of my brothers in arms, about what we do and how we do it. Perhaps I’ll speak of it later, and perhaps I will not. But there, on that bed, lay a man whose every word and action I respected, even loved, and he had never carried a sword. He accepted responsibility on his own soul for all the horror of Alexandria, and it was killing him, or so it seemed to me, and indeed, seems to me still. Plague was running through Famagusta, and was reputed to be worse in Genoa and Constantinople that winter. But Father Pierre Thomas didn’t have the Plague. He had a conscience, and it smote him to the ground.

  A grim thought. The routiers who raped Alexandria went back to Italy without a backward glance, their ships laden with booty and slaves. The legate was, in the eyes of the pope and most of Christendom, the commander of the crusade.

  I knew that if anyone was in command, it was King Peter of Cyprus. And I knew that he had done none of the crimes, and made every effort at restraint. And yet, to be the commander or a king was to bear the responsibility.

  All this in a few beats of my heart. Father Pierre Thomas blessed us, and we three withdrew. There were other dignitaries there: the Chancellor of the city, the Orthodox bishop, and a rabbi. Outside, in the main chamber of the abbey, was King Peter’s admiral, Jean de Sur. He spoke a few sentences to de Mézzières and shrugged.

  De Mézzières wouldn’t meet my eye.

  ‘Is he dying, though?’ he asked Fra Peter.

  The English knight frowned. ‘Ask his physicians,’ he said. ‘He is heartsick, and all this talk of renewing the war is no help, I promise you.’

  De Mézzières furrowed his brow. ‘Are you so easily defeated?’ he asked. ‘The Egyptians are beaten. Their peace offers show how weak they are, and indeed, they are emptying the Holy Land to defend Cairo.’

  Fra Peter said nothing.

  De Mézzières glanced at me, as if I was disfigured.

  ‘You will find no welcome from the king,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘I expect none, as I have no intention of returning to court. I am going with Fra Peter to Jerusalem.’

  De Mézzières started. ‘You … ’ He paused. ‘Did you kill the Count d’Herblay?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I wish I had. But it was the act of another.’

  ‘A Christian knight, slain by another?’ he asked.

  I all but spat. So did Fra Peter. ‘A rapist, an arsonist, a murderer,’ I said. ‘Bent on the massacre of women and children, whom I was sworn to protect. I dropped him when he refused my order. But I didn’t kill him.’

  Fra Peter frowned. ‘Twenty men of the Order saw what happened,’ he said. ‘De Mézzières, this is an incident that can only bring shame on us all. Father Pierre Thomas was protecting the innocent, and d’Herblay was … like some demon from Hell.’

  De Mézzières sighed. ‘I know how men can be in a sack,’ he said. ‘And there were some bad men among us.’ He looked away. ‘But d’Herblay’s people are making a loud noise at court. The Count of Turenne says there are witnesses that you killed him in cold blood. They say …’ He looked at me. ‘They say you committed adultery with his wife, and then murdered him, and that you must be prevented from marrying her.’

  ‘I saved the king’s life on the beach at Alexandria,’ I said. My voice was soft, but my anger possessed me utterly. ‘I saved his life again in the fight at the bridge. Half the Order of Saint John saw what d’Herblay attempted to do. These accusations are—’

  De Mézzières nodded. ‘They are very real, and they could cost you your Order of the Sword and your lands held of the king. You must come with me and defend yourself.’ He looked contrite. ‘I am sorry I allowed myself to listen.’

  Fra Peter flexed his sword hand, a tic I’d noted in him a few times, when he was really angry. ‘Sir William is charged to join me in taking several hundred pilgrims to Jerusalem,’ he said. ‘That is his duty to our Order. He has done his duty to your king, and been excused. This talk is poison – pure foolishness, the sort of malicious drivel that makes men fear to visit Cyprus or your king’s court.’

  ‘Unsay that!’ de Mézzières said.

  ‘You know I speak the truth,’ Fra Peter said. ‘This Florimont de Lesparre and his people are the king’s new favourites. They have his ear, they are kin to d’Herblay and Turenne. Tell the king to stop listening to such stuff and have a care for his own reputation.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ de Mézzières asked, and he touched his sword hilt.

  I stepped between them. Think of me as a peace maker … The image should make you laugh. But it was not funny at the time, I promise you – two men I respected, ready to fight.

  Of course, I’d not been on Cyprus. I had no idea what had been happening.

  ‘Gentilhommes!’ I said.

  Father Pierre Thomas had risen from his bed at the sound and tottered to his door. It was his apparition at the door and no word of mine that brought them both up short.

  ‘My friends,’ Father Pierre Thomas said.

  They both looked sheepish. I looked sheepish too. Monks scurried away from us.

  De Mézzières bowed low. ‘My Lord,’ he said.

  ‘I am no man’s lord,’ Father Pierre Thomas said. ‘Why are you, two of the very pillars of the temple of the church, arguing like shrill fishmongers in Avignon?’

  Neither man wanted to speak. It is surprising how quickly the greatest cause can become a petty squabble when you have to relate it to a third party, especially one whom you love.

  ‘Fra Peter. Your voice was loudest. Speak,’ Father Pierre Thomas said. He could be quite fierce.

  Fra Peter nodded at me. ‘Newcomers at King Peter’s court are slandering young William,’ he said. ‘The king is behaving erratically—’

  ‘That is almost treason to say,’ hissed de Mézzières.

  ‘No, it is not,’ Fra Peter said.

  ‘Silence,’ Father Pierre Thomas said.

  I had seldom heard him speak so forcibly. He was pale, but the skin close to his lips was pinched and white. ‘The king remains the head of our crusade and the general of our cause.’

  Fra Peter shook, visibly, with the effort to repress something he wished to say.

  I got down on my knees, in front of Fra Peter, de Mézzières, and a dozen monks, a Greek Orthodox priest and a rabbi. ‘Father,’ I said. ‘I will confess my sins, but I did not kill d’Herblay.’

  Father Pierre Thomas shuffled over to me and put his hand on my head. ‘Bless you, my boy. I know who killed d’Herblay. He has confessed it. Nor was his sin so very
dark, in that level of hell to which we went.’ He went to de Mézzières. ‘Tell the king that he should be more moderate,’ he said simply.

  De Mézzières now took a turn hanging his head. ‘I have told him. The result is that I am to accompany you to Venice and I am not welcome at court. Pardon me, Ser Peter. My only desire was to save this young man from the loss of his lands and Order. The rest was unbridled anger.’

  Father Pierre Thomas smiled, blessed us, and made his way back into his chamber. He sighed, like a father at his children, and we heard the planks creak as his weight settled into the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Fra Peter said, extending his hand.

  ‘As am I,’ de Mézzières said. ‘Sir William and I are fated to misunderstand each other.’ He took my hand as well.

  ‘My Lord, when I am back from Jerusalem, I will come to court.’ I bowed.

  De Mézzières shook his head. ‘Does the countess accompany you to Jerusalem?’ he asked.

  Fra Peter nodded.

  De Mézzières looked away. ‘Then the damage will be done. Listen – they mean to disinherit her. To charge her with adultery in front of her liege, the Count of Savoy, when he comes here.’

  I have been hit in the head a few times, but I can see through a plot when I have to. ‘Of course!’ I said. ‘She holds all the lands, not her husband. He held them only for his lifetime. Is there a brother?’

  De Mézzières shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I do not listen at keyholes,’ he said proudly, ‘even when it would be to my benefit.’ He sighed. ‘But the admiral might know, or any of the king’s inner circle. You really should go and face these charges now. In a month or two, the king will have made up his mind.’

  ‘The Green Count is coming here?’ I asked.

  ‘So we’re told,’ de Mézzières said.

  ‘Do you know the Bishop of Cambrai?’ I asked.

  ‘I know the name. Robert of Geneva.’ He glanced at me. ‘Yes, he is reported to accompany his cousin the count.’

  I did not pray. I cursed, and a dozen religious men flinched.

  Robert of Geneva, coming to Cyprus.

  Perfect.

  The next few days, the first of Anno Domini 1366, were spent in training and mustering two hundred soldiers. None of us liked the number – John the Turk summed it up.

  ‘Too many for sneak, too few for fight,’ he said.

  But we had almost three hundred pilgrims. In addition, we had many ‘volunteers’ who could not be turned away; the chance to ride armed to Jerusalem was too good to be missed.

  My friends, I feel I need to talk about Chivalry. Here, a little more wine, lass.

  I have spoken ere this of my deep respect for Geoffrey de Charny. And in his Livre de Chivalrie, he suggested a sort of hierarchy of chivalric effort. He says, ‘Qui plus fait mieux vault,’ or, ‘He who does most is worth most.’

  And he was quite specific about what ‘doing most’ meant. Fighting in a tournament is better than not fighting; travelling to fight in a tournament is better than fighting at home. Fighting in war for your lord is better than any tournament; fighting far away from home is better. Best of all is fighting for God, in the Holy Land. De Charny, whom I helped kill, didn’t invent these ideas. He codified them for all of us – for the fighting class, the ordo of chivalry.

  I mention all this because when you offer a knight the chance to go to Jerusalem and fight, you offer him the chance to do more. So a great many young men came to us in the new year – so many that we had to turn some away.

  So I suppose it wasn’t just my name. Or my name at all.

  At any rate, we jousted and fought on foot, and the archers lofted shaft after shaft, and Lord Grey shook his head at me.

  ‘We’re taking these louts to Jerusalem, and we just turned away knights.’ He was watching Fiore humiliate half a dozen mongrel routiers. It was not that Fiore meant to humiliate them. It was just his usual mixture of arrogance and impatience. Bah, not really arrogance. He was everything he thought he was.

  At any rate, they looked like six urchins playing blind man’s buff against a man with two good eyes.

  I nodded.

  ‘We’re taking Scrope,’ Lord Grey said decidedly.

  One of the delightful issues facing me in Cyprus was one of authority. Fra Peter had told me that I was to be his lieutenant. But he had five other knights of the Order who outranked me absolutely, and Lord Grey was sure that he, as the legate’s gonfalonier, outranked me, and then some of the richer English knights, like Scrope, were also sure that they outranked me socially – even though Scrope had just been knighted.

  This is where reputation becomes like hard coin in a buyer’s market.

  ‘Not my decision,’ I said mildly. ‘You need to speak to Sir Peter.’

  Lord Grey turned the family grey eyes on me, grey as England’s skies. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Lord Grey said. Being a great lord, Grey didn’t fancy being told ‘no’.

  And I couldn’t very well plead that I couldn’t stand the arrogant Scrope.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, mildly.

  It’s not in Vegetius, but this is part of the art of war.

  Ah, Vegetius! I remember when I was laid up before the jousts at Calais – when du Guesclin took me in ’58 or ’59. I was lodged with Gaucher de Châtillon, the Captain of Reims, and a gentler nor better knight you’ll never meet. He had a Vegetius. De Rei Militiaire. I read it while I recovered from wounds. Really, I think I lay in bed and waited for visits from Emile, and learned to love Machaut. But I did read Vegetius.

  I bring this up because the second day in Famagusta, I found an old Genoese selling some small jewels, several devotional paintings and half a dozen volumes. One of them was Vegetius, in a fine hand, and bound in was Llull’s Book of Chivalry in French, which I could read slowly. The Latin Vegetius was beyond me, but I was surrounded by churchmen and I had a hankering to learn Latin. Or rather, to improve my Latin.

  He was a cheerful old codger, and my Italian pleased him. He bought me a cup of the local drink, a warm mixture full of sugar. Sugar cane is one of the principal exports of Cyprus, of course. Anyway, we sat together in his stall, while Marc-Antonio looked over the market like the Venetian he was.

  He was shocked that I wanted the book. That amused me. He showed me other wares, sending his boys running for gloves, a jewelled dagger, an ostrich plume, a whole narwhal’s horn, which he claimed was from a unicorn. As I was born in London and not yesterday, I scoffed at the horn, derided the construction of the dagger, asked the price of the plume, and then returned to the book.

  I flipped it open. It was written in a fine hand, as I said, in two columns. I could make out the chapter heads well enough. I’d read it in French. ‘How much?’ I asked.

  He leaned back on his stool and sipped his sugar between his teeth. ‘It is a fine copy,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘I can read the hand well enough,’ I said.

  ‘A man offered me sixty florins just yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘You should take that,’ I said. I rose to my feet. ‘It’s an excellent offer, and better than I can afford.’

  He sipped his drink again. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Perhaps sixty florins and I add in the plume, which is worth five florins anyway.’

  I rose to my feet and sketched a small bow. ‘Too much for me, messire. I give you good day.’

  I smiled to show I was not offended, nor meaning to give offence, and strode off before he could stop me.

  That night, a great many of us gathered to share dinner in one of the town’s excellent inns. I won’t say there was a festive atmosphere; there were many factions on Cyprus, and the Genoese and Venetians not the least, but the profession of arms does like a good tavern, and there were a great many of us who’d just visited Hell together.

  We were sitting, well fed on octopus, drinking
a heavy red wine, when Scrope leaned back in his chair and spoke to his companion, a Gascon knight named Gaspar something. He pointed at me, fairly obviously, and I heard the name ‘d’Herblay’ said aloud.

  ‘She’s more than a little soiled, is she not?’ the Gascon said. ‘Didn’t the king fuck her in Venice?’

  He laughed when he said it, and Scrope laughed with him.

  I might have killed them both on the spot. But whatever I heard, Fra Peter heard more, as he was a seat closer to them than I, and he placed a heavy hand on my right arm.

  Scrope looked at me, and I realised I wasn’t overhearing a conversation.

  I was being baited.

  I took a deep breath.

  It is one thing for Father Pierre Thomas to preach to you that you must turn the other cheek. I know what my Saviour preached. It is another thing to live in the world of men, and soldiers, where, from time to time, some churl tests your manhood just to see if you are all that men say you are, or because he himself is lacking something and wants to see that you might lack it too. I say this in the fullness of age, but I was not utterly a fool at twenty-five.

  I let the breath go, and counted to five in my head.

  ‘Of course, Monsieur Florimont says she has always been thus, and is quite … mad,’ Scrope said, his eyes on me. ‘Mad with lust. Perhaps I will have a turn,’ he added with a smile.

  Fra Peter had had enough, and leaned across the table. ‘Wherever you were trained, apparently your master forgot to tell you never to mention a lady at table except to praise her.’

  Scrope shrugged. ‘I imagine that I was trained better than many a knight here,’ he said. ‘By noblemen, not by hedge knights and routiers.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ Fra Peter said.

  ‘I suppose it is easy to be rude, when you are protected by your cross and sacred calling,’ Scrope said.

  I laughed aloud. It was … antic. Mad, foolish, and it made me laugh, that this sprig was rude to Fra Peter. I laughed, and I made sure he knew I laughed at him.

  ‘Tell me what is so funny, Sir William,’ he said.

  ‘Only that Lord Grey asked me earlier to beg a boon of Ser Peter, here, to let you come with us to Jerusalem,’ I said.