The Long Sword(240)

            There was worse to come. But luckily, in the atmosphere of recrimination, I took my leave of the king and de Mézzières in a rose garden. I didn’t have to listen to the French, the Bretons, the Savoyards or the Gascons justify themselves.

            King Peter looked drawn, his face pinched. Men said that he had come home to a cold bed and a distant welcome. Men said all sorts of terrible things. I saw the queen at a distance – but more on that later, if we sit together another night.

            King Peter, true to his word, made me put my hands between his and accept a barony. Men told me it was a fine piece of land, would support ten knights and I swore to be his man and to serve him with three knights whenever he desired.

            It did not lift the black fog entirely, but I had never held any land before. I was a lord.

            By the grace of God.

            The king gave me his leave to depart; not that, as a volunteer of the Order, I needed his leave. And he gave me his passport to Jerusalem.

            He put a hand on my shoulder and sighed. ‘Some of the English go to Jerusalem. My people say that the Sultan is so discomfited by the overthrow of his army at Alexandria that he has withdrawn his garrison.’ His eyes met mine, and they were red. ‘Where did we fail?’ he asked.

            ‘The crusaders failed you, my lord,’ I said. ‘But for them, we should have won.’

            He shrugged. His bitterness was immense. ‘You will see the Countess,’ he said.

            My spine stiffened.

            He looked at me. ‘I am told,’ he said, ‘that her husband did not survive the sack.’

            ‘I didn’t kill him,’ I said, probably too quickly.

            He smiled grimly. ‘As for that, Baron, I care nothing one way or another.’

            I bowed, knee to the ground.

            ‘Will you wed her, Lord Gold?’ he asked. It was not the question, which was perfectly correct, but the manner of his asking – wry and discordant.

            ‘I will, with God’s help,’ I said. Oddly, one of the answers we gave in Church.

            He looked down, and shrugged. ‘She is a wonder. When you see her,’ he said, ‘Tell her that she was correct in her surmise. Only that.’ He shrugged. ‘I never wanted to command the crusade.’

            ‘No, your Grace,’ I said. I accepted his kiss of peace, and I withdrew.

            I will not say he was a broken man. I will only say that his light was dimmed. The fire that burned so hot in the lists at Krakow was almost gone. He knew – and I knew – that something was broken and would never, ever be restored.

            The next day, we sailed for Rhodes, and the passage there was brutal, nine days of storm-tossed seas and fear. But by God’s grace, on the tenth day we raised the twin harbours and the fortress, and we landed in the sunset.

            There were a great many people on the beach. They began to cheer as we came ashore: the galleys turned and landed stern first, and the oarsmen marched off, followed by the deck crews, and then the volunteers and last the knights, and we paraded on the foreshore in the sand. And Raymond Bérenger, the Grand Master, walked along our ranks as the people cheered us.

            Marc-Antonio was recovering – yet another miracle. He appeared beside me with our horses in his fists, and John with two more. John the Turk was grinning.

            Nerio was grinning.

            We were, after all, alive. When you are young, horror does not last, thank God and all the saints, otherwise we would all run mad.

            Fiore hugged me, and Nerio shook his head. ‘Turn around,’ he said.