The Long Sword(92)

            She looked at her steward.

            He looked at me. ‘I suppose it is possible that the bishop’s brother is lying,’ he said.

            ‘We have virtually been under siege in this house for three weeks,’ Emile admitted.

            ‘Why would I lie?’ I asked. ‘There are four thousand men-at-arms in and around Venice. We will cut our way to Jerusalem or die trying.’

            She smiled. ‘You really have not changed, have you?’

            ‘Come with me!’ I said insistently.

            She looked at me. ‘I was attacked in my home,’ she said carefully. ‘If I leave, I will forfeit my right to bring my attackers to trial in the courts. This is my home. My people have owned a piece of this rock for six hundred years, William. I do not intend to leave that to Bishop Robert and his thugs.’

            I had not considered that she was, in fact, of the haute noblesse. ‘How could he imagine he could have you killed?’ I wondered – that’s how fickle the mind can be.

            ‘He tried to have the bishop killed so that he could have the See of Geneva,’ the steward said. ‘That’s how all this started. The old bishop was the count’s enemy.’ He turned to his mistress. ‘I think you should go. If you trust this man, go.’

            She blinked. ‘Ah, Amadeus, I long for Jerusalem with all my soul, but I am a daughter of these mountains, and I will not be beaten.’

            Amadeus shook his head. ‘Take your children and go. If there are none of you left as potential hostages, we will be safe. I will get a notary, some fine plump black cock, to try your case.’ He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Will your legate write us an indemnity?’

            ‘Of course!’ I said. It was against the law to seize or despoil a pilgrim or a crusader or their land or moveable property.

            He looked down his long German nose at me. ‘See to it that I receive a copy with a seal,’ he said. ‘Lady, take some men-at-arms and go.’

            Emile looked at me a moment. ‘Leave us,’ she said. ‘I thank you for your council, but I need a moment with Sir William.’

            Amadeus withdrew.

            When the door was closed, Emile looked at me under her lashes. ‘With my children,’ she said, ‘I will have no scandal.’

            I bowed and, I suspect, protested.

            ‘Please give me my favour,’ she said.

            I was stricken. ‘My love!’

            She tapped her foot impatiently. ‘You are a fool, William. Do you imagine that I, a countess, will ride to Venice in the company of a man who openly wears a favour I gave in my misspent youth? Do you know what a reputation as a wanton I had at Jean le Bel’s court? I have two sons and a daughter to defend. I will not have them besmirched with foolishness.’ She wore a look – a smile that included anger. ‘You wore my favour at Krakow. People who know me were there.’

            ‘Was it all foolishness?’ I asked. ‘I love you, Madame.’ Then it struck me – what she had said. ‘Oh, sweet Christ.’

            ‘Were you thinking of me when you made love to your Italian girl? She figures prominently in tales of your amours,’ she snapped. ‘Pamfila di Frangioni?’ She extended her hand. ‘Nay, William, it will not wash. You are a fine knight and a bad lover, and I am no prize either. So help me get to Venice and we will be friends.’

            Again, I might have complained, or set her down with a rebuke – surely she had slept with her husband often enough!

            But age brings a little wisdom, and my battle sense was on me. I reached under my scarlet surcoat and unpinned the worn blue scrap and knelt. ‘I am sorry I have been unworthy,’ I said, and I meant it.