The Long Sword(227)

            Stapleton narrowed his eyes. ‘He asked to be taken to the king.’

            I nodded. ‘So he did,’ I agreed. ‘Any other questions?’

            Maurice frowned. ‘We will move quickly? What about prickers? Outriders?’

            I shrugged. ‘I was hoping the archers would agree to lead the way.’

            Ewan laughed. ‘Is there any money in this?’ he asked. ‘I see you’re all soldiers of God, an’ all. But everyone else is looting, and we’re here working an’ getting killed.’ He looked around and spat. ‘Not yet, mind. But this here’s a mad trick, ridin’ across a city gettin’ sacked.’

            Ned Cooper looked at me like a shy maiden – a particularly old and ill-favoured shy maiden. ‘True knights is generous’ he said. ‘The Black Prince used to offer us a douceur when we was missin’ out on the loot.’

            Miles all but spat. I’m glad he didn’t. ‘The legate is every man’s friend, and has held this expedition together,’ he insisted. ‘He trusts the English more than any!’

            ‘More fool he,’ Ewan said. ‘Fuckin’ English. Present company, eh, Ned?’

            I glanced at Nerio. Nerio laughed. He had lines on his face like an old man, and the firelight made him look older and more dissipated than his father. But his laugh was his old laugh. You might have thought there was a wench in the offing.

            He nodded. ‘Twenty ducats a man when we reach the ships,’ he said.

            Ewan raised his eyebrows and frowned at the same time. ‘Eh bien,’ he said.

            Rob Stone, hitherto silent, said, ‘Amen.’

            Ewan spat on his hands. ‘Let’s ride,’ he said.

            John the Turk looked at Nerio. ‘Me, too?’ he asked.

            Nerio laughed. He turned to me. ‘Jesus had it all wrong, brother,’ he said. ‘He should have offered to pay men to behave well.’

            Fiore laughed. ‘I could use twenty ducats, too,’ he said, which was as close to making a joke as I ever heard the Friulian come.

            About ten more minutes passed while the legate was prepared. We tied him to a borrowed warhorse. I rubbed Gawain down, gave him a little water, and he seemed spirited. He was a far better horse than I had thought, back at Mestre.

            It was fully three hours after vespers, the very dark of the night, when William de Midleton opened the sally port for us. ‘God speed,’ he said.

            I confess I almost expected a crossbow bolt to take John the Turk, the first man out the sally port. But he slipped out of the gate, low on his horse’s neck, bow strung but in the case at his side. He rode with George and Maurice and, after a minute of rapid heartbeats, I sent the archers after them. Rob Stone winked as he kneed his rouncey through the gate.

            I went with Nerio, and then Miles and the legate’s deacon, Michael, supporting him on his horse, and then Fiore with Davide at the rear.

            By my estimation, the ambush had to come right away. If d’Herblay and the Hungarian really planned to kill the legate – or me – they would know we were in the Cairo Gate. By waiting, I hoped to bore him into assuming we’d spend the night. He’d post men on the gates, and they’d tell their master when we moved.

            By the time we reached the great avenue in the middle of Alexandria, lined with palaces – I had all but forgotten the Hungarian. Instead, my senses, tired to the point of failure, and then overwhelmed with noise and light, were bruised. Buildings were afire everywhere. By the ruddy light, we were treated to a carpet of corpses on every major thoroughfare. The sheer numbers of the dead staggered us all, even men who had seen fighting in France.