I spun round. The other man had stood up, although he was stooped and was looking sour enough to let me know I had hurt him, however slightly. He leered evilly, his knife held straight out, point aimed unwaveringly at my face. I saw that he wore an odd sort of costume, something like a Saracen rag-picker: Moorish trousers, a loose-sleeved shirt and a waistcoat- of filthy, painted leather. The shirt hung open to reveal a great black serpent tattooed on the man’s dark chest. He smiled, revealing black and yellow teeth. Then he glanced to his left and held up his left hand. I had been about to run as fast as my feet could carry me, but now the logic of battle, all the training dinned into me over the past two years aboard the Cormaran, took over. There was another man, probably a bowman. He would not shoot me while I was so near his comrade. Or the snake-man was bluffing, and he had stupidly given me an opening. That was a better thought, and acting upon it I dropped my knife and lunged for the boar spear, which lay in a spreading pool of Rollo's blood. I came up with it as the snake-man turned back to me, and his smile vanished.
If you are extremely good at fighting, or just exceptionally lucky, you will very rarely find yourself with the upper hand and with the clarity of mind to choose your next move. I was no more than adequate in a fight but fickle luck had come over to my side and suddenly I was the master of an unequal struggle. The spear I held was a good six feet long, tipped with a long, razor-edged blade. My enemy held only a long dagger. Keeping my eyes fixed on his face I carefully stepped over Rollo's corpse and circled, forcing him to put himself between the bowman, if he even existed, and myself. I have said my mind was clear, but into that clarity anger now poured like burning tar. This man had meant to slaughter me, and I was suddenly disinclined to forgive him. My natural instinct, perhaps, would have been to let him run for it if he cared to, but I was so overcome with rage that instead of making my own bluff I began to jab at him, edging closer until he was parrying the spearhead with his knife. He did not look scared, however, in fact his smile had spread to reveal more rotten teeth. This merely fuelled my anger, and as rage makes a fair proxy for courage, I ignored what Dimitri my fearsome teacher had told me over and over again – keep your head – and lunged.
The man side-stepped and slashed. His blade slid down the haft of the spear and I parried it away. I lunged again, and again. He was still not afraid, still giving me his foul smile, but I was backing him up, keeping out of his reach but near enough that his friend with the bow – if he was real – would not shoot. I lunged, and he gave ground. Now we were picking our way among the corpses of Rollo's dogs, one of whom still kicked feebly. The man tripped slightly. We both glanced down. It was the spear I had dropped while charging the boar. Desperately I lunged again, but the man dodged, knocked my spear aside and flung his dagger at my face. His aim was perfect but I was too close, and the handle struck me crosswise across the bone of my nose. I heard it snap and felt blood begin to gush instantly. I staggered back, and through hot tears of pain I watched the snake-man snatch up the fallen spear.
You bastard!' I yelled. I was still furious, but now I was frightened too, and barely able to breathe. In this confusion of rage and fear I leaped forward as the man was straightening up, and stuck my spear into his shoulder. It went deep, up to the cross-bar, and I yanked it out and thrust again. This time I missed, for he had lurched sideways. His own spear came up. I charged again: again my spearhead missed and I slammed into him. We stood for a moment, and then, overcome with blind panic I shoved him away and he shuffled backwards, grunting in pain. I pushed again and again, shoving him back. We were like two drunkards fighting in front of some tavern: both clumsy, both exhausted. But I was younger, and he was wounded, and in a turmoil of sweat and gasping breath I drove him across the clearing and into the river. His feet went backwards into the wet mud and his face went slack with horrified understanding as he slipped and fell.
There was a mighty splash, and the man vanished full-length beneath the water. My own momentum carried me forward and my own heels struck mud. I landed hard on my bum and slipped down the little bank. As the man surfaced, spluttering, I levered myself up with my spear. I felt a moment of calm, a fragment of victory, for my enemy was down and unarmed, and perhaps this thing was over. But his arm came up with the spear and as he floundered, trying to find his feet, the long, wicked spearhead caught the sun. I swallowed blood, waded into the river and stabbed him full in the chest with all my might. I jerked it out and stabbed again, and again, until the man was meat and rags in the water.
I found myself sitting on the bank, head in my hands, which were filling with blood and snot like a chalice. There was a pounding in my ears, and I felt transparent, as if the sun were shining right through me. My legs were in the water, and dark ropes of blood were twisting like leeches about my calves. I retched: nothing came up, but I felt less incorporeal. Raising my head at last, I saw the river, and standing in the middle of the stream, my mare, pale and grave. She dipped her head and delicately sipped the water that ran in crystal ropes around her knees. The man with the snake tattoo was nowhere to be seen.
Whether there had been other men in the trees waiting to finish me off, I will never know, for at that moment I heard the blast of a horn, and then another sounded in answer, not far off. Then, with an eruption of baying, the whole pack of alaunt hounds burst into the clearing behind me.
Feeling as if carved from ice, I wandered out into the river and took the mare's reins. We walked slowly back to the clearing. Rollo was still dead, the broken arrows making him look like a great seagull carcass, some strange flotsam thrown up on a beach. The man I had stabbed lay face up, eyes staring and filmed with dust. His tunic – the same Saracen rags as his comrade – was torn open and an alaunt hound was hungrily lapping the blood that pooled there. Sickened, I kicked it aside, but noticing something, I knelt down beside the corpse.
The dog’s tongue, as it drank the man's blood, had dragged across the tattooed snake that writhed across his chest. Except it was not a tattoo, for it had smeared. I bent down and, despite my revulsion, took a corner of tunic and rubbed. The snake came away, leaving a faint, dark stain. Lampblack, or something like it. Thinking hard, I dipped my finger in more blood and rubbed it across the man's stubbled cheek. It left a lighter trail across the dark skin. What had they called them, these snake-men? Athingani. This man was no more Athingani than was I, on that I would wager the Crown of Thorns itself. There was a clatter of hooves and, on some impulse that was not entirely clear to me, I quickly rearranged the tunic to hide the man's chest. Staggering to my feet, I found Aimery and the rest of the hunt standing in a crescent around me, pale and gawping.
This is a charnel house. Dear Jesus, is that Rollo?' Aimery rasped finally. Aye’ I said.
Who…' another man began. I held up my hand to shut him up.
'I don't know,' I said. 'No. Those, you know. Those Egyptians. With the snakes.'
Aigupti? You mean the Athingani attacked you? But they do not…' It was the man with the crossbow.
'Shut your mouth, Eudes,' snapped Aimery. 'They are savages and thieves. They despise us and now they have spilled good French blood.' He jumped down and knelt beside Rollo. 'Good Christ! Rollo, dear Rollo!'
'He did not suffer,' I said. 'Believe me when I say that he died laughing.'
Aimery gave me a cold look. 'But he killed this one?' He prodded the dead Athingani.
'Nay, it was I. Whether this man shot Rollo I cannot say. He had a companion.' 'There were two? Where is he?' 'Dead, in the river.'
'The Englishman killed two men?' one of the hunters said, admiringly. Aimery stared at me, his eyes even colder than before.
'But you could not save Rollo,' he said, bitterly. Why did they not shoot you?'
‘I was down. There was a great boar…' Suddenly I felt weak, and sank to my knees. 'The boar did for the dogs and Rollo's horse. The boar, mark you, Monsieur Aimery, the boar had sense enough to fuck off. Men hunting boars, boars hunting men, men hunting other m
en…' Then everything went silver and black, and when I opened my eyes again I was lying on a pallet of folded cloaks under an olive tree. The man with the crossbow was holding a flask to my lips, and gratefully I slurped at the wine.
'Good man’ he said. We thought you were done for. But it's just your nose, eh? Took a knock to the head, did you not?'
'One or two’ I said, and tried to sit up. He restrained me gently but firmly with a hand on my chest.
'Stay there a while’ he said. 'The other chaps are putting Rollo on a horse. Poor bloody Rollo. Aimery and he were like brothers.' 'Aimery does not like me’ I said.
'Aimery can be a bastard, but we just found your other dead man, and he will give you some respect now, you can be sure. Why did you not tell us you were such a warrior?'
'Because I am not’ I said. But the man's face wore the sort of stupid grin that men wear when some act of bestiality or foolishness has impressed them. I could already see the day's carnage spun into some hero's golden tale. Sure enough, they handed my knife back to me as if it were Excalibur and I some vainglorious fool from the pages of Chretien de Troyes; when later we rode back towards the city, Rollo's flopping corpse tied over a saddle, the company seemed more interested in the fight than in their dead friend. I was used to fighting men by now, but on the Cormaran we tended to rate survival above heroics. These men, though, were knights or sons of knights and they seemed to value life somewhat cheaply. Doubtless Rollo would be missed, but he was not mourned, not yet at least.
Save by Aimery, who alone amongst the merry huntsmen rode silent, pale and slit-eyed. He had been closest to Rollo, I understood that much. The tall man was as sombre as the others, and led our procession, head bowed. But I had not been stunned enough to miss the surprise with which he had greeted my survival. He had hidden it well, but the tall man had expected to find Rollo alive and me dead. I had received a thorough apprenticeship in the ways of deception and falsehood, and if I had not been able to read a lie like the one that had played over his face I should not have deserved my berth aboard the Cormaran. I was feeling sick in my flesh and in my heart, my nose throbbed horribly, and stars were still drifting across my vision, so I did not ponder these matters in any thorough way. But I reasoned that, if there was some plot against my life, it was known only to a few, or else I would have been slain by the company as soon as we had left Constantinople. It was easy to suspect the tall man, but now I began to wonder whether Rollo too had been a party to it. Why had we been paired together? And if Rollo were so dear to Aimery – for if there were a plot, surely they were all in on it – would he have been sent into danger so heedlessly? But then again, why had Rollo not killed me himself, and blamed the boar, or the Athingani, or whomever he pleased? Nothing was clear, save that three men were dead, and that I could very easily have been bumping along like Rollo, lashed to a horse's back, my head lolling against its flanks like a turnip. I ignored the excited chatter of the others as we rode through the lengthening shadows, the air starting to grow chill, towards the crumbling walls of the city, for my ears could hear nothing save the toe, toe, toe of Rollo's skull as it knocked against an empty stirrup.
Chapter Nineteen
O
ur sad party rode through the gates of the Bucoleon Palace a little before sunset. One of the guards who met us, gaping at the corpse we brought with us, was sent ahead, and so we were greeted, in the inner yard, by a party of men-at-arms and two noblemen. I found I was so stiff that I could not dismount on my own, and so I was helped down like an old man. A surgeon arrived, a Moorish gentleman, who gave me a draught of bitter herbs in strong wine and led me to a stone bench, the better to examine my wounds. I was grateful to him, for the group of hunters was telling their tale, and voices were being raised in excitement, disbelief, and now anger. I thought the nobles were glaring in my direction, but the surgeon was dabbing my lacerations with something that stung like Satan's pitchfork, and I could not tell if it was just my fancy. Aimery was shaking his head, and then he pointed at me. That I had not imagined. One of the nobles planted his fists on his hips and regarded Aimery belligerently, head cocked to one side. The huntsmen shuffled their feet, but Aimery uttered something I did not hear and pushed, with rude unconcern, past the angry nobleman. With that, the party dissolved. Rollo's corpse was led away, and that was the end of that. The hunters drifted off. The surgeon fussed about me with his diabolical unguents, and in the midst of his torture I looked up to find the other nobleman looking down at me, a concerned smile pinned to his florid face.
I do not remember the pleasantries and expressions of concern that were exchanged, for I was in too much pain, and too sick in my very soul to pay much attention. I nodded and smiled and told a rude outline of what had befallen Rollo and myself. I had enough sense to omit my discovery of the false tattoos, and I saw no need to voice my suspicions, for I felt far too weak and unsure of anything at all. The worthy Moor gave me another of his draughts and called for a litter, on which I was borne up to my chambers and put to bed – or at least I assume I was, for I remember almost nothing until I awoke late the next morning, feeling like something I had once seen a seabird vomit up on the deck of the Cormaran.
I lay there, feeling like meat on a butcher's slab and vaguely expecting to be sent for by my hosts, for the more I chewed over the horrible events of yesterday, the more strange they became. I did not suspect the Regent, for he was all but desperate that the business I had come to oversee go ahead, and indeed the future of his shoddy empire would seem to depend upon it. Perhaps, though, a plot had come to light and would be explained to me. I had some details that I was quite anxious to add, and surely there would be an inquest into Rollo's murder. But no one came, and at last I staggered up, found I was feeling far better than I expected, and so decided to take myself off for a walk, if only to get away from the palace, which I was beginning to find unbearably oppressive.
It was quite late when I made my way out into the rain: some time past noon, I guessed. I set off through the puddles and the freezing curtains of water, and had sloshed my way to one of the streets between the palace and the waterfront where I knew food was to be found, when I thought I heard someone call my name. Then it came again: ‘Petrus!' I whipped around, for my name had been called by a Frankish voice, and it did not sound friendly. Indeed it was Aimery de Lille Charpigny, who was striding towards me across the square. He was scowling. I drew myself up, limbs aching, and prepared for unpleasantness.
'Petrus Zennorius! Where are you going?' Not a hint of a smile, and no warmth in the voice. 'Nowhere in particular,' I told him.
'Then we will walk awhile,' he said, falling in beside me. I noticed he was wearing a huntsman's short sword. We strolled along in deep silence. Finally I could stand it no longer.
'Good Aimery, I owe you a debt of thanks,' I said. He grinned coldly. ‘I doubt that,' he said. Why, though, do you say it?'
Yesterday, when we returned from… from the hunt, you took my part against one of the barons. If you will permit me, I will return your "why".'
He stopped and regarded me closely. His face, I noticed, was very white.
‘I was tempted, sorely, to kill you yesterday when we found you and Rollo. I thought, and it seemed clear at first, that you had let my friend be slaughtered by those… necromantic beasts. But I am a soldier, and have seen many battlefields; and even to my unwilling eyes it was plain that you had fought bravely and tried to save Rollo, and more, that you had made an end of his murderers. And so, when we returned and that fellow seemed more keen to prosecute you than to tend to the body of my friend, seemed, indeed, merely annoyed that Rollo was dead and that you lived, I took your side as a point of honour. And then I decided to find out exactly who you were, my friend.'
I studied his face as carefully as I could, and saw anger very plain there, and sorrow, but nothing else, I thought. 'Good Aimery, can I tell you the truth, as I perceive it?' 'As you see it? Ha! You churchmen and your words… Very well, I will
make do with that, for the time being’ 'And could we, perhaps, sit down somewhere?' 'The palace…' 'Not the palace, I think.' To my surprise he gave a half-smile, a real one.
'No, not the palace. There is a place near here – a merchant's tavern.' 'Venetian?' I asked quickly. 'Pisan, I think. Why do you ask?' 'I am not sure. But Pisans will do at a pinch. Lead on.'
Aimery led me down towards the Golden Horn, where the deserted streets had been colonised, ivy-like, by the life and bustle of the Italian wharves. A ruined building had been shored up and re-roofed and now bore a sign emblazoned with a golden bunch of grapes being pecked at by a blackbird. And sure enough, in the corners, the white cross of Pisa. It was empty, and the proprietor had to be summoned. He brought wine and bread, and left us alone.
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