And every one of them had precedence over me.
The inn of the English langue was so much like home that I blinked in the great stone doorway and imagined, for a few heartbeats, that the Thames was two streets away. The English langue was located below our bastion, the section of walls for which the English are responsible during attacks. The building is tall, like a London house, and broad, taking up the space that two or three houses would occupy, with a glittering facade of mullioned windows. The ground floor is stone, and rubble-filled timber soars away, whitewashed over stucco over brick, four tall stories of London shining in the Mediterranean sun. Deep stone basements protect the ale and they go down so deep in the soil that you can see the ancient street from the time of Alexander and there is a marvellous bust in one of the cellars, a bearded man’s head that some say is Saint John and Nerio says is Messire Plato, the philosopher.
It might be the best inn in London, save for the omnipresent smell of garlic and the presence of oil lamps on every table and olive oil in the food. But it is a noble building with many rooms and many places for private conversation; unlike any other inn I know it has a chapel and a chaplain. The courtyard has a line of pells where men may practice the art of arms, and the archery range and tiltyard are close.
By ancient custom, the commander of the English langue is the turcopolier, or the officer in charge of mercenaries. I’m not sure what this says about the English, but in the crusade year, the turcopolier was the captain of the Order’s cavalry and scouts; a senior military officer. His name was Fra William de Midleton, and he was a tall man of enormous girth, and no amount of exercise seemed to reduce his size.
I learned all this on arrival, because the turcopolier was sitting in a snug with the legate.
He rose, his great belly pushing at the table that Father Pierre was using as a desk, and extended a massive hand. ‘Sir William de Midleton – I am delighted at your coming, sir, and the more so as the manner of your arrival reflects so much credit on our nation in the Order.’
In the next few minutes I learned that our battle with the Turks was the talk of the waterfront and indeed of the whole town, where it was fairly reckoned as the first fruits of the crusade, since the whole coalition fleet was composed of men committed, at least on paper, to the attack.
‘How did you find your first brush with the enemy?’ Fra William asked.
I was flushed by his praise, but I bowed and thanked him. ‘I found them to be good soldiers and wonderful archers. Brave and very dangerous. But poorly armoured.’
Fra William nodded. ‘Those are Turks. Brave and reckless. Wonderful archers! When we get a few to convert, we recruit them instantly, I promise you. But when you face the Egyptians, the true Mamluks, you will see that courage and archery united with the industry and discipline of Egypt. The Ghulami are fully armed – and twice as dangerous.’ He smiled. ‘Luckily, we have … arrangements … with the Sultan.’ He smiled at Father Pierre.
The legate did not smile. ‘No Christian should have an arrangement with the infidel,’ he said.
Fra William raised both eyebrows. His face was broad and flat with a large nose and wide, childlike eyes – he looked more like a favourite uncle than a commander of mercenaries. ‘Excellency, when you have lived here as long as I—’ he began.
Father Pierre looked at me, and not the turcopolier. ‘I have been in the East since the year of Poitiers,’ he said. ‘I have lived in Constantinople and Famagusta. I know the Latin sees of Outremer. I know that Venice and Genoa and Pisa and Florence have made their own pacts with the devil – but I do not expect such rhetoric from the Knights of Christ.’
Fra William showed his dismay and anger. He leaned against the cool stone wall and shook his head.
I thought of the admiral and his statement about pirates. But, quite wisely, I think, I didn’t say what came to mind.