The Long Sword(178)

            ‘Yes, Sir Knight.’ I bowed carefully, given the limited space.

            He smiled, and the room seemed to fill with his glow. ‘Good. As an Englishman, you fall to me, and I am proud to have you. I’m sorry I had to start with discipline. But we take it seriously. And you will see why if we come to battle. Knights – gentlemen – are used to doing just as they please, even on the battlefield.’

            Fra Robert smiled. His smile was as thin as Fra Williams was beaming. He didn’t strike me as a man who had much time for humour.

            I nodded. ‘I have some experience of this,’ I said.

            He handed me a set of keys. ‘Perhaps the greatest advantage of being English,’ he said, ‘Is that we have the richest inn except for the Italians, but the smallest langue in numbers. So while there are men camped in the streets, I can give all of you cells, good cells with beds. Enjoy them – they may be the only beds you see for a year. The food here is excellent, though I do say so myself,’ he added, patting his belly. ‘We will pretend that your friends are English. Fra Daniele thought they were.’ He went back to writing, and I was not sure whether I was dismissed or not. After some time, he looked up. ‘You know John Hawkwood. How is the bastard?’

            I shrugged. Italy had made me the master of many shrugs – shrugs for knowing too much, or nothing at all. ‘I wrote to him twice last winter and had no reply. He was badly defeated last autumn, but he rescued much of his army.’

            ‘There a rumour that he and the Visconti are threatening Genoa,’ Fra William said. ‘That the Pope used Hawkwood to put pressure on the Genoese to participate in the crusade.’

            I shook my head. ‘It may be, but he was nowhere near Genoa when we undertook the last round of negotiations. That success belongs entirely to the legate.’

            ‘I knew him as a boy.’ The turcopolier frowned. ‘Our lives have taken very different paths.’ He met my eye. ‘How many men have you commanded?’ he asked suddenly.

            ‘I was a corporal last year against Florence, with fifty lances,’ I said.

            Fra Robert smiled his thin-lipped smile again. He murmured something I did not catch.

            Fra William raised an eyebrow. ‘Most of the volunteers who came out with the legate have declared a desire to serve together.’ He signed his name, took hot wax and sealed his document. ‘If circumstances align, I might like to see you command them. It would be unprecedented for a man not of the highest birth – commands of volunteers and donats usually go to princes and kings.’ He grinned sourly. ‘I don’t have one, this fight. Did the Emperor really gird you with that sword?’ he asked.

            I smiled. I drew the longsword carefully and handed it to him, and he regarded the Emperor’s sword with something like lust.

            It is worth saying that the sword was almost unmarked by a dozen combats. There was not a nick in her blade, not a mar on the surface of the metal between her fullers, except where I had covered myself against the sweep of the Turk’s axe – I had not allowed his weapon anything like a direct cross, and yet his edge had left a cut on her forte.

            ‘You fought in a tournament,’ he said.

            ‘Yes,’ I admitted.

            ‘While wearing the surcoat of the order,’ he added. Then he shook himself; indeed, he quivered. ‘Never mind. But please understand that you have flouted some rules that young knights are punished for disobeying.’

            ‘Are these rules written down somewhere? I asked.

            He laughed. ‘Every baillie has his own. Every langue has some few. It’s only ten years ago that we were allowed to keep a copy in English – until then we had to read the rule in Provençal. But I’ll find you a copy of the rule. You won’t find any mention of tournaments.’