The Long Sword(145)

            He was a strange man: an Englishman who spoke ten languages, a well-travelled man who seemed to know everyone and yet often passed unnoticed. He often served the legate as a courier, and he was often away.

            Some men disliked him. He could be very slippery – he was often guilty of agreeing with other men merely to escape controversy or debate, which bored him. He once pulled me away from a fight and told me that I could not kill everyone I disliked. I never had better advice.

            But in June, he sat across a chessboard and a pitcher of wine from me. He was dressed for riding, in thigh-high boots and a deerskin doublet. He’d been away, all the way to Avignon, or so Fra Peter said.

            ‘So, is the Countess d’Herblay your lover?’ he asked.

            What do you say?

            He leaned forward. ‘It’s palpably obvious, to those who can read faces. Listen, my friend, I took note when d’Herblay acted against you. Even if no one else did. Eh? I had a look at some letters – best not to ask. And I had the briefest of discussions with one of the lads who had taken you. If you take my meaning.’

            I suppose I looked away. I knew I couldn’t meet his eyes.

            He grabbed my hand. ‘Listen, Sir William, you love life, and the state of your mortal soul is nothing to me. Have her every day – on the altar, for all I care. But this is crossed with the legate, and that makes it my business.’

            I was speechless, filled with anger, shame, panic, rage.

            ‘D’Herblay was supposed to take and kill the legate at Genoa, yes?’ Sabraham nodded. ‘I wondered how on earth we escaped. I begged the legate not to go. I find that we escaped because d’Herblay put all his energy into taking and killing you.’ Sabraham leaned forward. ‘D’Herblay is out of the game for a while. Off the board.’ He lifted a knight – a red knight – and took him off the board.

            ‘Camus hates you, you know this?’ he asked. He smiled a nasty smile. ‘Quite the piece of work, the Bourc. Fra di Heredia sends his regards, Sir William, and says that Camus is toothless, for the moment.’ He took another red knight off the board.

            ‘Do you know who the king is, Sir William?’ he asked.

            I nodded. ‘Robert of Geneva,’ I said.

            ‘Soon to be Archbishop of Geneva. His brother, the Count of Turenne, is coming on crusade with us.’ He picked up a red knight. ‘I want you to imagine this piece transformed to have all the powers of a queen. But appearing only to be a humble knight.’

            ‘Turenne?’ I asked.

            ‘Turenne is a fool. Possibly a coward.’ Sabraham shrugged. He put the red knight back on the board. ‘But in his retinue is d’Herblay. And a Hungarian.’ Sabraham smiled. ‘A man like me. Do you understand?’

            I thought of the Hungarian with the pearls in his hair, standing coolly over the corpse of the man who’d stolen the Emperor’s sword. ‘I think I’ve met him.’

            ‘He has been paid to kill the legate,’ Sabraham said. ‘And you, of course.’



            My friendships with men were not the only relationships being strained.

            One evening I returned to the convent and Fra Andrea let me in the wicket. He led me silently through the rose garden and then walked silently away.

            Emile was there. She was with the King of Jerusalem and he was on one knee, kissing her hand. She was looking out over the lagoon.

            She turned and saw me. She didn’t start or flinch, but merely smiled and gently tugged at her hand.

            The king would not release it. ‘How long will you make me wait?’ he asked.