The Long Sword

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Does He not say, give all you have and follow Me?’ John asked.

  Nerio slapped him on the shoulder. ‘He didn’t mean a horse or arms,’ he said.

  John laughed. ‘Of course not!’ he said. ‘Christ no fool.’

  John also thought I was a priest because, at his baptism, I read the Gospel. From John I learned that an imam, a Moslem priest, was a reader first and foremost. I discovered that imams are not disbarred from being warriors or having wives, which led me to suspect that the Saracens might have certain advantages.

  Be that as it may, John was the first real servant I ever had. He was both a wonderful and terrible servant. He had no notion of subservience: that is, he had respect for my rank, and my friends, but he, too, was a professional warrior, and he didn’t expect to be treated any differently. He was happy to lay out my kit, polish my armour, sharpen my weapons, and especially care for my horse but he refused to have anything to do with the serving of food or the cleaning or maintenance of clothes, all of which he described with withering contempt as ‘women’s work’. He handed all of them to Marc-Antonio.

  One day they appeared before me, Marc-Antonio with two black eyes and a long gash on the back of his right hand, and John virtually unmarked – but whatever was settled between them, Marc-Antonio was no longer referred to as the ‘woman’.

  It is odd, to me, that some men have such opinions of women. Women, to me, are brave, careful, smart, and delightful. I would cheerfully do laundry to have an hour with a woman, and I’d think nothing of sewing clothes for anyone I like. And the Blessed Virgin was a woman. I defy any gentleman anywhere to offer her insult, and I offer that cartel without restriction to any defamer of women.

  But my Turk, my Kipchak, saw the roles of women and men as separate streams. If we are held here long enough, perhaps I’ll tell you how John came to change his spots. But as the weeks passed, and we trained and trained, and our horses fattened and recovered their muscle, so John became one of us. And one day we watched him shoot his bow.

  First, he was given a bow by Fra William. He thanked the turcopolier profusely – and then, when the man’s back was turned, he fumed. He ridiculed the bow as too weak, badly made, with a cast. He strung it and unstrung it.

  He took the quiver of arrows he’d been given and went through them one by one.

  ‘A bow for slaves. And arrows to match,’ he all but spat. He upended the quiver, an English arrow bag, really, and in it was a mixed bag – literally – with arrows of every colour and nine or ten different fletching styles: round vanes, elliptical vanes, and pointed vanes like our own arrows. He fetched a stool (we were in the yard) and began sorting them into piles, staring down the length, holding them to the sun, and running his thumb down the vanes.

  One of our crossbowmen, the Order’s, I mean, came out with an English ale in his fist. ‘I hate to see them apes given arms,’ he said in Genoese-Italian. ‘But they’re born to bows like little centaurs.’ He watched the Turk. ‘Almost intelligent, eh? Good bow, eh?’ he said to the Turk.’

  ‘Bow is craps. Arrows are turd every one,’ John said. ‘Made in Genoa.’

  The crossbowman flushed and went back inside.

  John smiled a grim little smile, and went back to sorting arrows. In the end he chose five – of forty. Another ten he set aside, and after he’d taken the steel or iron heads off all the rest and thrown the shafts on the inn’s pile of kindling, he straightened the ten he’d chosen over a little fire. A few days later, when the garrison was shooting at the butts, John appeared with his English quiver at his belt – on the wrong side. When I tried to correct this, he laughed at me.

  The garrison archers and crossbowmen were loosing at about seventy paces. We stood and watched them, about thirty paces further up-range. John strung his bow, and then, without drawing a breath, loosed an arrow over one of the Genoese.

  It struck the distant target.

  Every man on the line turned and the Genoese crossbowman began to yell insults.

  John raised his bow and loosed the other four arrows in his fingers as fast as I can tell this, the last arrow leaping high into the sun before the first one struck.

  When they hit the target a hundred paces distant, they struck one, two, three, four.

  I looked at Juan. ‘Why didn’t they kill us all on the beach?’ I asked.

  John laughed. ‘I am out arrow.’ He turned his back on the Genoese in contempt. ‘Get I good bow, fight better.’ He shrugged. ‘Sword, horse.’

  Juan looked down range at the target and the angry archers. ‘May Saint George and all the saints preserve us,’ he said.

  ‘Amen,’ I agreed. ‘John, do all the Turks shoot like you?’

  He shook his head in disgust. ‘Turks, no.’ He said. ‘Turks and Turcoman not all good archer. Some fall off horse. Horses. Yes? But Kipchak and Mon-ghul ride, shoot, always win.’ He shrugged. ‘Not always. Yes? But many.’

  Juan pursed his lips. ‘Yes, John,’ he said.

  John was not the only Christian Turk, not by a long chalk. As I later found, the Greek Emperor had a whole regiment of them, and so did some of the lords of Achaea and Romania. But his archery was superb and the tales of his prowess circulated rapidly. Some of our crusaders came to see him shoot and to wager on him. I confess I made a fair packet on him one afternoon, wagering with a dozen former brigands as the marks were moved farther and farther away.

  A new shipload – a great round ship – of crusaders had come from Venice. It had aboard a number of Gascons and some other French and German knights. I hadn’t met them yet, but they all came to watch the archery and complain of the heat.

  One of crusader knights was d’Herblay. With him as a full retinue of men I knew – some well, like young Chretien d’Albret, who remembered me as a routier only slightly less barbaric than Camus, and many Gascons, Bretons, and Savoyards men-at-arms who clearly viewed me as their lord did, as an enemy. Gascons are the touchiest people on the face of the world. They hate each other, and everyone else, in equal parts, and when one of them achieves a measure of fame, they expect to be treated like Charlemagne and Lancelot all rolled into one. The Bretons were hard men who said little and scowled much. The Savoyards were veteran men-at-arms.

  And they were with the Comte d’Herblay. Young d’Albret wore his colours, so that I had some warning that the man was present.

  I wanted d’Herblay dead – humiliated and dead. But there was more to it than that. Even while John the Turk took their money with his archery, I was watching them. They swore, they blasphemed, and perhaps more important, their clothing was slovenly and their jupons were all spattered with the rust of their maille, which they probably didn’t trouble to clean over much. The Order drilled its knights and volunteers every day; these crusaders never seemed to practice at all. They ate, they drank, they gambled, and they fornicated. Their state pressed through my hatred of d’Herblay.

  These were bad men.

  Very like the man I’d once been.

  D’Herblay paid over his debt on his wager with a poor grace. ‘And when did you become a little priest, Gold?’ he asked. ‘Have you discovered little boys? Are you pimping for the Pope?’ He nodded and smiled his ironic smile. ‘Of course you are not dead. Of course. When a gentleman wants something done right—’

  ‘He needs to have the courage to do it himself,’ I said.

  I was curious to find that his taunts had very little impact. In a camp in Provençe in fifty-seven or fifty-eight, those words would have sent me into a rage. Here, I looked at Juan, who was hard by, and he rolled his eyes. You must imagine us, in our sober brown gowns, neat and clean as new-made pins, and these rust-stained brigands. D’Herblay was himself well dressed, in incongruous and sweat-matted fur and wool. But his men looked like the scrapings of a particularly rancid barrel.

  ‘You used to have the name of being a fighter, Gold,’ d’
Herblay said.

  ‘I would be delighted,’ I said carefully, ‘to fight you at any time.’

  He flashed his fake smile.

  ‘Daggers, right now?’ I offered.

  Juan put his hand on my arm. ‘The order would cast you out. And perhaps excommunicate you.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ I said. Ten minute with them, and I was becoming one of them again.

  D’Herblay stepped back among his men-at-arms. ‘And be knifed in the back by your thugs?’ he said.

  I didn’t even trouble to reply. Just for a moment, I considered drawing my basilard and killing my way through to him.

  To the ruin of my career.

  And the death of my soul, perhaps. Or perhaps I’d be making the world a better place.

  He tried to whip the Gascons into a fury against me, but they didn’t think highly of him, and he left us with a trail of imprecations that might have earned immediate heavenly retribution and made him sound weak – and I found that Fiore’s hand was heavy on my shoulder and Nerio was pressed against my side.

  ‘Wine,’ Nerio said.

  Of all people, Chretien d’Albret came and stood by me when d’Herblay was gone. He was older, heavier, and had a scar on his left arm that ran down on to his hand, a bad wound. He approached me with reserve.

  I bowed and then reached out and embraced him. We had, in fact, survived some hard times together. His face brightened as I embraced him.

  I introduced him to Juan, and to Fiore, and Nerio, who greeted him with no warmth at all.

  Fiore hadn’t met him, but by happenstance had heard me speak of the youngest d’Albret.

  ‘Ah!’ Fiore said. ‘Sir William speaks of you often.’

  As a method of warming an old friend, this line cannot be beaten, and Fiore’s sincerity was indubitable. When we had collected all of John’s winnings we took him back to the English inn, and gave Chretien d’Albret and his friend Henri – I cannot remember his style – at any rate, we gave them some wine and were treated to a long dissertation on the state of politics in the Duchy of Aquitaine, which was of interest only to me. Fiore shuffled in his seat, eager to be back in the yard, and Juan took to peering out the mullioned windows, and eventually I let them go.

  D’Albret shook his head when Fiore made his excuses. ‘You are so … mild,’ he said. ‘I remember you, you and Richard, running the inn in that little town we held all winter when you were fighting Camus. When you took me. You remember?’

  I laughed. ‘Of course I remember.’

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t swear. You are dressed like a monk. D’Herblay says you fucked his wife. Is that true? Or are you really a monk?’

  ‘He is a coward and a bad lord,’ I said. ‘You should not serve him.’

  D’Albret fingered his beard. He had a louse crawling out of his collar, headed for his hair. I remembered living in clothes full of lice.

  It seemed a long time ago.

  ‘You think you could kill d’Herblay?’ he asked, and he cocked an eyebrow.

  I didn’t say in a single blow. I shrugged. ‘Any time. But I will spare you my boasts,’ I said.

  ‘You ran a brothel,’ d’Albret said. He said it in accusation, but the accusation was not hypocrisy. The accusation was You used to be one of us.

  The truth of it was that by changing my spots, I accused him. And he knew it. He was uncomfortable. Even as we sat in the inn, brothers and knights would come in from exercise, or divine office, or mounting guard, with many a pleasant word, or the benison, or a saint’s name on their lips. I had grown used to the company of men who used courtesy at all hours – d’Albret still lived in the world from which I had come. Even when he swore, he did so only to try me.

  I shrugged. Again. D’Albret seemed to be trying to say something; he kept rising to it, and then slipping away. ‘I enjoy serving the Order,’ I said. ‘Have another cup of wine.’

  ‘What do they pay?’ he sneered.

  ‘Your family is rich enough,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you pay the fee and become a volunteer?’

  He looked at me as if I’d just made a lewd suggestion and he was a nun. ‘I fight for gold,’ he said. ‘What can your Order do for me?’

  ‘Why are you come on crusade, then?’ I asked.

  He laughed, leaning his stool back on two of its legs and stretching his booted feet towards the unnecessary fire. ‘To be rich!’ he said.

  ‘Not to travel to Jerusalem?’ I asked.

  ‘Not unless the streets are actually paved with gold,’ he laughed.

  Despite my new-found maturity, he was beginning to get to me. He meant to, and when they set themselves to it, Gascons can be the most offensive men in the world. Perhaps even when they do not set themselves to it.

  ‘This crusade is just a chevauchée?’ I asked.

  D’Albret grinned. ‘There’s no war in France and not much in Italy since Hawkwood got beaten. They paid us to leave Provençe, and then they paid us to winter at Venice, and now we’ll take a few Saracen cities and despoil them and go home rich as bankers. It was this or Spain.’ He looked into the distance. ‘Or perhaps when this is done, I’ll go to Spain. There’s to be fighting there. I hadn’t expected this misbegotten expedition to take so long.’

  I started to speak, but he rode over me.

  ‘It’s the fucking peasant the Pope sent. He knows nothing of war – a total fool. Can you imagine? An actual serf off Talleyrand’s estates, pretending to command men. The Pope wanted this expedition to fail.’

  I had finally understood that he meant Father Pierre. ‘The legate?’ I said. ‘Without him, there would be no crusade. Don’t be a fool, d’Albret. Whatever his birth, he’s no peasant.’

  D’Albret laughed his older brother’s nasty laugh. ‘Once a serf, always a serf. They flinch when you snap your fingers.’

  I could imagine what Father Pierre would say if I fought a duel for his good name. So I took a deep breath, looked elsewhere, and finally rose. ‘We will have to agree to disagree,’ I said. ‘I see him as a great man, a living saint.’

  D’Albret spat. ‘Well, the problem will be solved for us soon enough, or that’s what I hear. The Serf – that’s what we call him – has given offence to certain parties, eh?’

  ‘Who do you mean? And how will the problem be solved?’ I asked. I had been about to slap money on the table and walk away, but I knew a threat to my lord when I heard it.

  D’Albret looked both smug and superior. ‘I just know the Serf will be gone soon. And then we will have a good war, and booty. That’s what everyone says.’ He shook his head. ‘When you killed that French bastard who stole your sword in the spring? I told everyone I knew you. I was proud to know you, eh? What happened? Priests take your stones? I heard d’Herblay beat the crap out of you. He says you are a coward.’

  Before I knew it, my hand was on my hilt.

  He laughed. ‘So you are still alive,’ he said.

  ‘You serve d’Herblay,’ I said. It was obvious. He wore the blue and white arms.

  ‘He’s not so bad. Better than the Bourc. The money’s good.’ He shrugged. ‘He’ll kill you, William. When the legate’s gone you had best hide.’

  It was a busy day. D’Albret wasn’t gone a heartbeat before Nicolas Sabraham occupied his stool. From his look at d’Albret’s departing arrogance, I immediately understood his interest.

  ‘He claims there’s a threat to the legate,’ I said.

  Sabraham laughed. He didn’t laugh often, and his contempt was obvious. ‘The French have ten plots going to kill the legate,’ he said. ‘All talk. They are the most hopeless conspirators, and the most pompous.’

  ‘D’Herblay is here,’ I said.

  Sabraham knew that. ‘What I came to tell you,’ he said. ‘You show promise in this role, Sir William.’

  ‘Why do they
hate him so much?’ I asked.

  Sabraham sighed. ‘His birth. Their fears. They were raised to hate peasants, now a peasant will be Pope.’

  ‘I find I am not as close to young d’Albret as I once was,’ I said. ‘But I might be able to learn more – perhaps to turn him. He was a good man once.’

  Sabraham put out a hand to stop me. ‘No. I know all I need to know about the Gascons and the French. Although, if we take Jerusalem with those men, it will, I promise you, be entirely due to the will of God.’

  I winced. ‘They are good men-at-arms,’ I said.

  Sabraham shrugged. ‘They are thugs in armour. I’d prefer to use the Mamluks to exterminate them. In fact, I sometimes suspect that was the Holy Father’s intention all along. No, I am not here for your Gascons. I’m here for your Turk. May I meet him? Fra William says he is quite the marvel.’

  I summoned John – more arrow repair in the yard – and bought him a cup of wine. He never made any fuss about wine, and I find that many easterners will drink it. But that is beside the point.

  Sabraham spoke to him in Turkish. In minutes, they were speaking quickly, a veritable barrage of words, guttural and liquid.

  Sabraham dismissed my servant back to his ‘work’ and leaned back. ‘What a treasure,’ he said. ‘A fine man. You are very lucky. His people take death-debt very seriously. And he thinks you are a priest of Christ. His theology is a little weak, but you won’t suffer for it. I must go … I hear he’s a famous archer?’

  ‘He is, too,’ I admitted.

  Sabraham nodded. ‘Soon, Sir William, we’ll get to see what this crusade is made of. An archer who speaks good Kipchak may be the best asset we have.’

  A few days later, early in September, I believe, Miles stood the vigil before knighthood. We had a fine ceremony, and after vigil in the knights’ chapel of the Order, we heard Mass. Vigil in armour is a complex form of penance; the armour both supports and fatigues you, and as you tire, the plates of your knees begin to press harder into your kneecaps, and if I’d had a little less wine, I’d make a moral of that. But I won’t. Emile came. We touched hands at the holy-water font – I dipped my hand for water, and she put her hand in atop mine, taking her water from the backs of my fingers.