‘He claims there’s a threat to the legate,’ I said.
Sabraham laughed. He didn’t laugh often, and his contempt was obvious. ‘The French have ten plots going to kill the legate,’ he said. ‘All talk. They are the most hopeless conspirators, and the most pompous.’
‘D’Herblay is here,’ I said.
Sabraham knew that. ‘What I came to tell you,’ he said. ‘You show promise in this role, Sir William.’
‘Why do they hate him so much?’ I asked.
Sabraham sighed. ‘His birth. Their fears. They were raised to hate peasants, now a peasant will be Pope.’
‘I find I am not as close to young d’Albret as I once was,’ I said. ‘But I might be able to learn more – perhaps to turn him. He was a good man once.’
Sabraham put out a hand to stop me. ‘No. I know all I need to know about the Gascons and the French. Although, if we take Jerusalem with those men, it will, I promise you, be entirely due to the will of God.’
I winced. ‘They are good men-at-arms,’ I said.
Sabraham shrugged. ‘They are thugs in armour. I’d prefer to use the Mamluks to exterminate them. In fact, I sometimes suspect that was the Holy Father’s intention all along. No, I am not here for your Gascons. I’m here for your Turk. May I meet him? Fra William says he is quite the marvel.’
I summoned John – more arrow repair in the yard – and bought him a cup of wine. He never made any fuss about wine, and I find that many easterners will drink it. But that is beside the point.
Sabraham spoke to him in Turkish. In minutes, they were speaking quickly, a veritable barrage of words, guttural and liquid.
Sabraham dismissed my servant back to his ‘work’ and leaned back. ‘What a treasure,’ he said. ‘A fine man. You are very lucky. His people take death-debt very seriously. And he thinks you are a priest of Christ. His theology is a little weak, but you won’t suffer for it. I must go … I hear he’s a famous archer?’
‘He is, too,’ I admitted.
Sabraham nodded. ‘Soon, Sir William, we’ll get to see what this crusade is made of. An archer who speaks good Kipchak may be the best asset we have.’
A few days later, early in September, I believe, Miles stood the vigil before knighthood. We had a fine ceremony, and after vigil in the knights’ chapel of the Order, we heard Mass. Vigil in armour is a complex form of penance; the armour both supports and fatigues you, and as you tire, the plates of your knees begin to press harder into your kneecaps, and if I’d had a little less wine, I’d make a moral of that. But I won’t. Emile came. We touched hands at the holy-water font – I dipped my hand for water, and she put her hand in atop mine, taking her water from the backs of my fingers.
Oh, it sounds like nothing, but I still flush to tell it.
‘When you sail,’ she said softly, ‘I must stay here. The comte is here.’
There was no time to question her. We moved apart. But Father Pierre told me that the non-military pilgrims and the women would stay at Rhodes while the crusade attacked, and when we had seized Jerusalem, we would send for them.
I wanted to see her again. Her face was before me all the time, and she was only six streets away. Finally, I summoned my courage and sent Marc-Antonio to the nuns with a note. He had a way with nuns – it was his innocent countenance.
Thanks to that note, we began to plot our meeting. Emile suggested a church – Rhodes is full of churches, and some nearly deserted, especially after compline. We sent back and forth a date, a time, a place. It was delicious to correspond every day. I would fly home from the drill field, strip my armour and look for a note. Sometimes Marc-Antonio would put it into my gauntleted hand while I was still mounted. Some days there was no note at all.