The Long Sword(57)

            ‘My lord, I am from the legate, Pierre Thomas, in Venice. I left Venice on the first of July.’ I bowed.

            De Mézzières looked at me and blinked like a man facing bright light. ‘Legate? The Cardinal de Perigord is surely the legate,’ he asked.

            ‘My lord, the cardinal is dead, and the Pope has appointed Father Pierre as the Patriarch of Constantinople – and the legate of the crusade.’

            French was the lingua franca of the Cypriote court. Every head turned.

            I bowed again, keeping Father Pierre’s humility before me. ‘I have a packet of letters for you from Venice,’ I said. I handed him a heavy set of envelopes. ‘This one is from Messire Petrarca, as well.’

            De Mézzières paused. He was about to speak, but the king waved at me.

            ‘Ah! The courier of last night, now dressed in the latest Italian fashions to make us all feel dowdy.’ But despite his words, the king smiled, and his smile was warm. ‘Come here, sir, by me. And ten thousand apologies for my surliness of last evening.’

            I bowed. ‘It is nothing, your Grace. I have letters from the papal legate—’

            ‘Who, it proves, is none other than our well-beloved friend and father in Christ, Pierre Thomas! I have ears, sir, and I can hear when you speak.’ He held out a hand. ‘We are impatient to read the words of our fathers, Holy and spiritual.’

            I placed his letters directly in his hand.

            ‘Were you charged with any particular message?’ he asked carelessly.

            I bowed my head. ‘I was asked to tell you to come as quickly as you might, to Venice, where your army awaits.’

            ‘Hmm,’ he answered. ‘Tell my legate that I will come when it suits me. Tush!’ he said, grabbing my arm. ‘Say nothing of the sort. That is only my surliness speaking. Are you by any chance a jouster?’

            It was like talking to Ser Niccolò, except that if you were quick-witted you could follow the jumps Ser Niccolò made – his conversation was all connected, and often strung together with bits of scripture and quotes from the ancients. King Peter simply moved from one topic to the next without a shred of warning.

            It was like fighting.

            ‘Your Grace, I can run a course,’ I said carefully.

            ‘Do you have other men in your train?’ he asked. ‘That is, who can handle a lance and not make fools of themselves or me? Can drink a cup of wine and not cause an incident at a dinner?’ His voice rose as he spoke, and silver and white – I assumed that he was the Sieur de Tenoury since I’d heard him so addressed – cringed.

            ‘Your Grace—’ de Mézzières said, and his tone urged caution.

            ‘I will not be gainsaid in this, de Mézzières.’ The king spoke with great vehemence. ‘We are challenged and we will fight.’

            No one in the hall was looking at me, or the king. All of them were attempting to slide under the oak floor. I had been a squire when the Prince of Wales was angry – I had even been the target. I knew exactly how they felt.

            I was still kneeling in front of the king, and my eyes were cast down. ‘Your Grace, I have two men by me who can run a course.’

            ‘You have horses? Arms?’ the king asked eagerly.

            I wondered what I was getting Fiore and Nerio into. Perhaps I should have considered carefully, or been cautious. Or remembered the humiliations of the evening before.

            Perhaps, but I am not made that way. ‘Your Grace, we have horses and arms, and we are completely at your service.’ Some devil made me raise my voice. ‘The more so as you are the Pope’s appointed commander, therefore I am your knight.’