Pillars of Light

by Jane Johnson

  “Fuck that,” said Quickfinger, not really under his breath. “I ain’t getting tied to one of your stinking corpses.”

  “Better kill a nice clean noble, then,” someone chuckled.

  Savaric roared for quiet. “Don’t insult the local women, they’re keen on their honour here, and their menfolk will take you apart. If you must go with a whore, treat her properly and pay the price she asks, because I am not coming to bail you out of gaol. And if you catch the pox, that’s your own lookout too. Any man coming back on board showing signs of disease will get thrown in the sea. Remember that you’re wearing the de Bohun livery, and that we are on holy business, and that if you sin having taken the cross, God’s balance will weigh such sin twice over.”

  I looked around at the faces of his retinue. Most were men bred to do as they were told: servants and peasants, sons of servants and peasants. Then there were the mummers, the dregs of England, people who didn’t fit in anywhere and didn’t like being told what to do. There was a distinct difference between the two groups: the first were attentive; the others shuffled, making faces at one another. I could see there was going to be trouble once we were on dry land.

  Of the rest of the retinue, apart from the guards Savaric had taken on, there was a falconer, a keeper of armour (paid purely to keep it clean and polished), a horse-caparisoner, a steward, a dresser and three body-servants. Ever determined to put on a good show, Savaric had paid as much attention to his turnout as to the matter of war. “People take you at your own valuation, John,” he’d confided to me as we made our way from London to Dartmouth to begin our passage. “Appearances are important. If you don’t look as if you take yourself seriously, why should anyone else?” He’d patted the big ruby he always wore. “People see this and take me as a man of means, an important man with enough money to waste on a bauble I can afford to lose at sea or at war.”

  “But you are a man of means.”

  “It’s all a matter of degree.” He fingered the gold chain around his neck and I remembered him breaking the ‘ruby’ on it open in Rye as he renounced his sins.

  “Well, it’s a lot more means than I’ll ever see.”

  “This chain is probably the most valuable thing I’ll ever own.” He shrugged. “The stone’s just a piece of glass that I got in Venice. Clever fellows, those Venetians. They know the value of artifice. It’ll come in handy if I ever get taken prisoner. A perfect ransom, right here, around my neck.”

  “Aren’t you afraid someone will try to steal it?”

  “Let them try. Makes it seem even more valuable if they do. And if they do, well, I’ve got you lot to keep me safe.”

  Another fakery, I thought. A bit of glass posing as a priceless jewel and a bodyguard of ne’er-do-wells and thieves.

  Perfect.

  At the docks were merchants and sailors from a dozen countries, all speaking different languages. A group of local men—and women—were mending nets and packing pilchards into barrels. Take away the foreign chatter and the vibrant colour of their clothing and we might have been in Cornwall.

  After two months at sea none of us could walk properly. My knees had become unreliable; it was as if the whole world was on the move beneath me. Others amongst the crew were more seasoned sailors; they strode past with barely a wobble, eager to be the first to avail themselves of the fleshpots of Lisbon. Quickfinger attached himself to a contingent of them, having learned the words for “whore” and “whorehouse” in French, Portuguese and Spanish, just to make sure. Little Ned staggered after them.

  I pushed Hammer and Saw towards Red Will. “Remember what we agreed.”

  Hammer stared despairingly at the backs of the men disappearing through the crowd.

  “I’m sure there’s more than one whorehouse.” I sighed.

  Saw took Will by the arm. “Tavern first.”

  “Not going with them … Ezra?” Savaric winked.

  She grinned. “I could murder an ale.”

  “I thought we’d walk up to the castle.”

  “We?”

  “You two are my bodyguards with the rest gone off to soak themselves in sin.”

  Up through the steep winding streets we went, past women hanging their washing out to dry and gossiping. They watched us come and some whisked the corners of their headscarves over their faces so that only their glittering eyes were visible. As we passed they fell quiet, their expressions assessing. Savaric made the sign of the cross—acting like a churchman—and uttered a benediction, and at once they were piety personified, heads dipped in prayer.

  Up at the castle, squadrons of soldiers marched in and out, guards in shining armour at the gate. In the chilly shadows under those towering walls the fortress looked less benevolent than it had with the sun shining on it, from the sea. It was built with massive blocks of stone, impregnable.

  “Now that’s what I call a castle,” Savaric declared. “Strategic position, too, superb vantage point. You could hold a place like this against any enemy.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” The newcomer, a sturdy man, speaking French, pronounced his name Robairrr, Robert de Sable, come from France for the muster. Dark hair shot through with silver, tufts of white in his beard, white crow’s feet around the eyes. He was well but not flashily dressed. Still, there was something arrogant about him, unpleasant. Maybe it was just me, disliking Frenchmen.

  “It was taken back from the infidel forty years ago in a three-month siege during the Reconquista.”

  This was a word I was unfamiliar with, but Savaric seemed impressed. “You appear to know a good deal about the history of the place.”

  The man smiled, showing sharp dog-teeth. “My grandfather was one of those who fought to win it back. The Muslims had a stranglehold over the whole peninsula, spreading their lies and poison, but God sent a storm to drive the fleet of Christian knights on their way to the Holy Land in to Porto for repair. And there, the King of Portugal convinced them to help him retake Lisbon. Ah, yes, God took a hand in events that day.” He crossed himself and we all obediently muttered “All praise to the Lord.” Ezra looked at me, out of sight of Savaric and the newcomer, and rolled her eyes.

  “What people don’t understand about sieges is that it’s not all about the castle walls,” Robert continued. “They look at a fortress like this and think it can’t be taken. But you can have the strongest fortress in the world and if its defenders do not have the strength of God in their hearts, they do not have the ‘… something …’ to hold it against besiegers with God on their side.”

  “Volonté—what does that mean?” I asked, and they both turned to stare at me, a commoner interrupting two nobles.

  “The will,” Savaric supplied, glaring.

  “If the defenders don’t have the will to maintain a siege they’ll capitulate. They lost heart, the Muslims who tried to hold this castle. They’re like that, the Muslims: shake their confidence and you break their will. And once they have lost hope they are yours.” He closed his fist as if crushing a fly within it.

  The merchants’ houses in this city appeared plain on the outside—nothing but mud walls and sturdy, iron-hasped doors—but they opened onto courtyards alive with running water and cascades of bright flowers from galleries where birds sang and bees buzzed. Savaric was given quarters in one such, and his chosen retinue was billeted with him. It was like a palace to me. The sound of the water tumbling from the little fountain at the heart of the courtyard reminded me of the streams by which the Moor and I had slept on the Saints’ Way after leaving the priory.

  “You look like a child, asleep, John,” he’d told me. I’d near bit his head off, shouting “I’m no child!” It had taken time to understand he was putting into words the peculiar familiarity between us: sleeping out in the open in his company felt a thousand times safer than the confines of a monastery dormitory.

  The constancy of the little fountain smoothed the rough edges off my tumbling thoughts—till Savaric’s voice boomed out. “Put
your best clothes on, John, we are going to church!”

  Best clothes? Did he think I had five chests of outfits, like him, and a dresser to array me? I put on my livery, though it was rather the worse for wear.

  He looked me up and down. “That won’t do. Come with me.”

  His “dresser,” an ample Welshman with a bald head and a wicked tongue, took one look at me and declared, “Silk purse time, eh?” then delved into one of the huge cedar chests and came out with a cloak of midnight blue, trimmed at hem and facings with silver. This he whipped about my shoulders with a practised gesture. “And this should hide most of the rats’ nest,” he declared, slapping a cap on my head to tame my springy black hair. “Better, boyo?” he asked, though not to me.

  “Much better.” Savaric nodded his satisfaction.

  A moment later Ezra joined us, neatly turned out as usual. Women have that knack, even when they’re being men. The dresser gave a little sly smile and I sensed he knew exactly what she was.

  The church was like no other I’d seen, except in my visions. I stared about in wonder. Tall pillars in rows, each pillar meeting the next in a graceful, pointed arch. Light streamed in from all sides.

  I looked around, and I was not the only one enchanted, for everywhere I looked, other men had their faces tipped up to the soaring vaults when they should have been turned down in contemplation and prayer.

  I found myself wondering, had Saracens built this place? Or if not Saracens, the Moor’s Babas? Like the house with the courtyard, I’d have sworn it was built by no Christian, but daily we were told the Saracen was a monster, savage and ignorant, as dark of heart as he was of skin, fit only to be slaughtered like an animal. How could such soulless creatures have constructed something so wondrous?

  We were all quiet as we came out into the bright sun and baking heat after mass. Savaric, Ezra and I walked down into the central square where we took watered wine, warm bread and honey at a table outside a baker’s and watched the world go past, still wrapped in the serenity of the church. I slumped on the bench and thrust my legs out, tilting my head back, my eyes slitted against the hot light, and wondered how I might contrive to stay there forever, to slip away when the warships put to sea again, to melt into the shadows of the narrow streets, to spend my days like one of the feral cats that begged so slyly in the square, cadging food from strangers.

  Then a shadow fell over me. I opened my eyes and there was a man, bending low to speak into Savaric’s ear. He was brown-skinned and dark-eyed, dressed in colours too bright for an Englishman: definitely foreign. Savaric leaned forward, intent. I saw Ezra jump to her feet, knife in hand, but our master motioned for her to sit down. “It’s fine, all fine. No need for that.”

  Savaric drained his wine swiftly, licked his lips, then got up, all in a hurry, as if some bargain had been struck. “Come on,” he said, and strode off with us, following through the crowds after the dark man. In an alleyway a band of brown-skinned children tagged along behind us, begging in different languages for money. I chased them off, roaring like a lion, which pleased them mightily.

  We moved into a quarter full of stalls selling produce. Our guide dived down an alleyway so fast we nearly lost him. There were little windows high up over the alley, grilled with curled iron, movement behind them, someone looking out; sometimes a white hand, beckoning. Ezra caught my sleeve and, “Whores,” she mouthed, and rolled her eyes.

  Savaric turned to us. “Not much for you here, Ezra. But will you stand guard at the door, just in case? John, you come in with me.”

  “It’s all right,” I said quickly. “I’ll stay outside with Ezra.”

  “Nonsense. Men have needs.” He grinned. “Come on, lad, don’t dawdle—my treat.”

  And so I entered my first whorehouse. It was obscure inside, corners lit by candles, cheap ones; their smoke had blackened the walls and ceilings and there was a strong whiff of animal fat, even though there was incense burning in a brazier trying to mask that and other more unsavoury smells. As my eyes adjusted I could see four women lounging on couches, wearing slips of cloth that didn’t cover much.

  Savaric looked from one to another like a starving man at a banquet. “That one,” he said, indicating a girl whose long black hair hung loose to her waist, hiding only her breasts beneath the thin shift she wore. I looked away.

  “John, pick your lady or I’ll do it for you.” He was already dragging his “lady” to her feet. I watched as she shot a look at him and read in it, even in that low light, contempt and revulsion. I could only stand there, mute and frozen, wishing that I were outside, away from the smells, the fug, the women.

  “For heaven’s sake, man!”

  Suddenly a warm body thrust up against me, a soft breast pressed into my arm, and I was propelled into a side room. The door closed fast behind me. The woman Savaric had thrust at me pulled away and we stared at each other like two animals unexpectedly finding themselves in the same bear-pit. She was very young and her eyes were huge and wary. She began to shrug out of her robe.

  “No!”

  She stopped, one arm out of the dress, and said something in the local language.

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t … I don’t want …” I backed towards the door.

  Her chatter became an insistent gabble—panicked, maybe even angry.

  The dress was off now, crumpled on the floor. She lay back on the pallet that was the room’s only furniture, placed her feet flat with her knees bent, spread her legs and waited for me to join her.

  I had never seen a woman naked before. I couldn’t help but look, but all I could think was that she looked incomplete, strangely unfinished. There was no stirring in me; quite the opposite. It occurred to me that I must be a very unnatural sort of man that the sight of a woman’s naked cunt made me want to run.

  My bewilderment must have showed on my face for the girl began to cry, which was the last thing I had intended. Ashamed, I handed her her dress and she covered herself with it, and we spent the next half hour sitting at opposite sides of the room, not looking at one another, trying not to listen to the noises from the adjoining room.

  Walking back to the billet, the three of us were quiet. We were passing through the quarter where the market traders were selling food when suddenly Ezra exclaimed, “What are those?” She pointed at a stall laden with little orbs as bright as the setting sun. I’d never seen anything like them, even in the London markets, and they must have been unfamiliar to the people there as well, for quite a crowd had gathered.

  Ezra tugged at my sleeve. “Oh, buy me one, John, please. Please!”

  “You can buy one for yourself.”

  “I can’t. They speak foreign here.”

  “I hate to break this to you, but they’ll be speaking foreign wherever we go.”

  She made a face. “Go on.”

  Savaric encouraged me. “Buy her one, John. After all, you’ve had your treat.”

  I approached the stall, and though I’d picked up none of the local lingo I found my bastard French worked. The man selling the things told me they were “naranja,” some sort of fruit, apparently, brought out of the east. He sounded a little like my Moor but looked nothing like him. He asked a ludicrous amount for the fruit. I suggested a price that made him bellow with laughter; he lowered the number a little. On we went, spiralling inward to the point we knew we would both reach eventually. When we finally agreed on a price, he nodded and smiled and said a word I’d heard the Moor use.

  “Where are you from?” I asked him, handing over the money.

  “Here and there.”

  “Where’s there?”

  He laughed. “Marrakech.”

  “Where’s Marrakech?”

  “Across the water.” He gestured vaguely towards the sea.

  “Are you a Baba?”

  He wrinkled his brow at me and I repeated the question, trying to form the word the way the Moor said it.

  “Al-barbari, Berber, originally. We call ourselves
Amazigh.” It sounded like Ama-zir the way he said it, the “r” rolled the French way, like Robairrr. “The free people, it means. Now that’s a laugh, stuck in this shithole, trampled by the Franj.” He spat in the dust.

  In the end he gave me two of the naranja for the price we’d agreed for one. I thanked him, bowing my head and pressing my hand to my heart the way the Moor would do, and this made him grin.

  I took my prizes back to Ezra and Savaric. Ezra took hers in a kind of wonderment, stroked it as if it were a precious object, sniffed it, squeezed it, squealed at the perfume it left on her hand, then squirrelled it carefully away in her pack. “I’ll eat it later,” she promised, “when I’m alone.”

  Wiping the skin clean on my tunic as I would an apple, I bit deeply into the fruit, then exclaimed in shock, “Oh, it is horrible, horrible!” and added a few choice words in Cornish for good measure. Bitterness shrivelled my tongue. I spat out the offending pulp and it lay there bright in the dust.

  A gale of laughter—the stallholder and his friends, highly amused. “You don’t eat the skin, you barbarian! Like this.” The man from Marrakech picked up a fruit, dug his thumbs in, tore a hole through the thick skin and proceeded to peel it.

  Mortified, I copied him, but just as I was about to bite into the naked flesh a pair of big Templar knights barged past and confronted the man. “What have we told you about selling here?” One grabbed the stallholder by the throat and, being a good head taller, lifted him off his feet.

  “We don’t want your kind in this city,” the second knight added. He was a big man, with a meaty face, and for some reason familiar to me.

  “In this country,” the first Templar corrected him. “Or anywhere else in Christendom. Stop trying to rip off decent Christians! Take your produce and stick it up your arse!”

  “Or we’ll do it for you, then roast you over a fire like the pig you are!”

  “He wasn’t doing anything wrong, I just—”

  I tried to intervene but the first Templar shot me a look of pure disgust. “Don’t stand up for this infidel bastard or you’ll get the same treatment!” He turned his attention back to the stallholder. “Get down on your knees and pray to Jesus Christ the Saviour for your black soul!”