The Long Sword(148)

            She turned. Slapped me playfully. ‘I’m pouring out my soul!’ she said.

            I looked out over the waters. ‘Just tell me when I can kiss you,’ I said. ‘I’ll listen until then.’

            She choked. I can’t say whether she sobbed or laughed. Perhaps both.

            Then she shook her head. ‘I think that I am asking you not to kiss me,’ she said. ‘I believe my choices resolve down to none, or many. I choose none.’ She looked at me under her lashes. ‘Why are you not disgusted? The king would be disgusted.’

            ‘Only after he was finished,’ I said. I smiled. ‘At least, if he’s like Nerio.’

            ‘Yes,’ Emile said. She smiled slowly. ‘You understand? Truly?’

            I shrugged. ‘I have been some dark places. All I hear you say is that you, too, have been to them.’

            She shuddered. ‘And you?’

            I frowned. ‘Emile, I have killed men for money.’ I turned, getting my back to the wall. As if it was a fight. Perhaps it was. ‘You know what I have gained from Father Pierre? A sense of my own sin.’ I smiled. ‘And I’m mortally certain that if you put the bastard who took my horse in front of me tomorrow, I’d cut his throat.’

            Her mouth twitched.

            ‘So what penance shall I assign myself, when I know the next sin is just at the end of my sword?’ I asked and took a chance. I put my lips on hers, left them long enough to be sure, and then stepped back. ‘I love you. Would you prefer to wait for marriage?’

            ‘You’ll kill my husband so that you might marry me?’ she asked. She met my eye with her head half turned, and I think her amusement was genuine. ‘I don’t think we will be able to count on Father Pierre for that wedding.’

            She made me laugh. Christ as my Saviour.

            Because the answer was – yes.



            The next day, after training with the Order, I was summoned by de Mézzières. As I expected, I was left alone with the king.

            He motioned to me to rise from my deep bow. ‘Is a certain lady under your protection?’ he asked.

            I think I laughed. ‘I doubt that she needs my protection,’ I said.

            The king grinned. ‘Par dieu, monsieur, you are a man after my own heart. When this is done, come to Cyprus. I will give you lands and men, and you can one of my lords.’

            You still won’t get Emile in your bed, I thought.





ALEXANDRIA


            1365



            We sailed in early July. My body was healed, and I left behind me my revenge on d’Herblay, my fears for the Bishop of Geneva, my new-found love of Venice, and my hatred of Genoa. I had had this experience before, leaving London to go to France. War is always a sea voyage – if you return, everything is changed. Even you.

            We had perhaps four thousand men-at-arms, the cream and the riff-raff of all the men-at-arms in Europe that summer. We had the best of the Italian knights and many of the best French professionals; there was a rumour, right until we sailed, that du Guesclin would join us, and I wished for him. We had some very good English knights, as I have said before, and a surprising number of Scots and Irish – not that I can always tell the two apart. But the Leslies had brought men from the isles west of Scotland. They were, every one of them, as good as Kenneth MacDonald and his brother and Colin Campbell.

            Mostly, we had the scrapings of Poitou and Gascony, desperate men in armour whose outward rust belied the state of their souls, their purses, and their general discipline. Yet these same men were as tough as old saddle leather and as careless of danger and pain – vicious old mongrels who would bite any hand if paid. What the masters seemed to ignore is how they behaved when not paid.