The Long Sword(236)

            I went out with a borrowed poleaxe in my fist, and walked along the so-called ‘street of pepper’ with Fiore and Miles and Nerio and Syr Giannis until we reached the main avenue, where the looters were coming.

            They had a dead Moslem’s head on a pole, and they were carrying a woman – or what was left of her. They were all drunk, and they looked like souls basking in the warmth of hellfire.

            The five of us didn’t even cover the street.

            Fiore had his visor open. ‘What do we intend to do with these dogs?’ he asked.

            They were slowing. Behind us, the Greeks were filing into the Cairo Gate fortress, but they could only go single file. We had archers on the wall, and Fra William was preparing a sortie.

            It was all too slow to save the Greeks. And the looters – the crusaders – were numerous and well armed.

            The Count d’Herblay shouted my name.

            ‘Bon soir, William the Cook!’ He laughed. He had his armour on and his hose down by his ankles. He had a poleaxe in his armoured fists and fresh blood on the knuckles of his gauntlets. He didn’t look like the angry, weak man of Genoa. The one who’d flinched from my beating.

            In fact, he looked drunk, and insane.

            I was in some way pleased. I admit this. It made what I intended easier.

            I raised my axe. ‘Halt,’ I said. ‘You may not come further, on pain of death.’

            ‘Who the fuck pretends to give us orders?’ asked a Gascon.

            ‘I do, in the name of the Hospital. Go rape children somewhere else,’ I said. In that moment, I hated almost all the men on earth.

            They didn’t like that.

            No one does.

            D’Herblay laughed, but it was hollow. His face was a terrible thing of rage and pain, fatigue and fear. He had lines that made him look like a damned soul, and his face was near black with smoke. He came forward without troubling with his visor or his hose. God only knows where his leg harness was.

            Conversationally, he said, ‘You know, Camus will kill me if I kill you. He wants you so badly.’ D’Herblay laughed. His laugh was – terrible. Even – sad. ‘But he’s not here and I am. If you run away, we won’t kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘Or we will.’

            ‘Last chance, my lord,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of killing. Aren’t you?’

            He stopped, just out of range. Then he spat. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘All my life, I have been afraid. All my life, I have wanted …’ He frowned. ‘Do you know what I’ve found here? Nothing matters. It’s all just shit. You … my whore of a wife … the king … Camus …’ He croaked his laugh. ‘Here, it just doesn’t matter. I can be … anything.’

            I didn’t think that I was talking to the Count d’Herblay. There was no vanity, none of the puffed up crap. No sarcasm. His voice was stark – and horrible.

            ‘I don’t even want to kill your damned legate any more,’ he said. ‘But it is all blood and smoke. Isn’t it?’

            He was shifting his weight.

            I tried one more time. ‘Disperse!’ I shouted. Or perhaps I merely coughed it. ‘Turn back, or be the enemies of God.’

            ‘I am the fucking enemy of God,’ D’Herblay said. ‘So save your sanctimonious shit.’

            One of his blue and white men at arms laughed at that – and then they all came forward at us.