The Fools’ Crusade

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  ‘Can I help you, Father?’ I enquired.

  ‘Assuredly.’ He spoke with a jolly simper, but there was something underneath the merriment. ‘I am Father Matthieu d’Allaines. Am I addressing Petrus Zennorius, lately of Venice?’

  ‘That you are. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, perhaps a draught of cool water? And then we will talk. I have come a long way to find you, my son!’

  ‘Of course! Come inside, Father.’ With a smile and a bow, and a sudden rush of foreboding, I ushered him into the shade of the courtyard, and shut the door. I showed Father Matthieu to the stone bench beneath the orange tree, and called to Abbi the major domo to bring cold sherbet.

  ‘You’ve arrived from … ?’ I enquired, delicately. The priest pursed his plump lips and smiled.

  ‘Rome,’ he said, his voice syrupy with self-approval.

  ‘To see me? Surely not,’ I protested.

  ‘Surely not? That is an interesting way of putting it,’ said the priest, inscrutably. Our drinks arrived, and Matthieu d’Allaines took his cup eagerly, but I noticed the look of disdain he cast at Abbi. ‘Yes, interesting,’ he went on, after he had taken a couple of greedy swallows. ‘Because, you see, I came looking for you, expecting – hoping, indeed – that I would not find you.’

  ‘And yet, here I am,’ I said, puzzled. The man was beginning to annoy me with his riddles.

  ‘Exactly. Here you are. Why?’ He narrowed his eyes.

  ‘If you had come tomorrow you would have found me gone,’ I said, prickling. ‘I am here with the army, and with the army I leave in the morning. For Cairo.’

  ‘Most commendable. Most commendable – your duty lies with the army of the Lord. And with King Louis, yes?’ He finished his sherbet and put the cup down with a dry clack. ‘Such loyalty – but to whom?’

  ‘You will have noticed I wear the cross of a crusader. I think that means we’re both loyal to the same Lord, eh?’ I was being glib, but the little man’s face was souring quicker than puke on a hot doorstep.

  ‘I have one Lord, but I serve one master, and one alone,’ he snapped. ‘And you: have you turned Frenchman? Your lord and master is Earl Richard of Cornwall …’

  ‘That is common knowledge,’ I scoffed, though it wasn’t. And I knew, all at once, what was coming next.

  ‘And is it common knowledge,’ the priest’s voice sank to a whisper, ‘is it common knowledge that you have sworn an oath to Earl Richard, to deliver an item? And that the earl is doing my master’s bidding? You, sirrah, have betrayed not only your lord, but mine – and in that, you have spat in the face of Jesus Christ himself !’

  ‘You are far from home, priest,’ I growled.

  ‘But at least I have a home.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘Why have you not delivered Earl Richard’s letter?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake! Not so loud, you imbecile!’ I looked about us, but apart from the rats in the date palm, we were alone. ‘You have just got here, so you told me. It seems a Christian city: no dark faces, no muezzin wailing over the roofs. And that is right. Where, oh priest, do you think the good Mussulman people of Damietta have gone, eh? They wait outside the walls, to cut every Frankish throat that strays out of bowshot. Did you trouble to look about you? Have you been up on the walls? Between here and Cairo is one vast fen. A fen full to bursting with Saracens. Neither I nor my letter would be good for anything save the worms if I had set off like a blind calf to the shambles. My task …’ My voice had risen, and I lowered it hastily. ‘My task was to deliver the pope’s letter to the sultan at Cairo. Tomorrow we march south to take the city. The army will spread confusion before it, and into that confusion I shall slip, deliver my letter—’

  ‘You are a liar. And a bad one.’ That hurt. If nothing else, I knew myself to be a flawless liar. And besides, I was telling the truth.

  ‘No, I am not,’ I hissed. ‘I will carry out my side of the bargain. But listen to me! Do you suppose the sultan intends to let Louis conquer his lands? In what mad Lateran fantasy is this sultan expected to throw up his hands and surrender to the infidel host unless he receives a fucking letter?’

  ‘You blaspheme …’

  ‘I do not speak ill of Our Lord, priest, but merely of a gaggle of scribes and arse-lickers.’

  ‘The words are those of Pope Innocent himself.’ Father Matthieu’s lips had gone as thin as cheese-wires.

  ‘Listen, priest! It is not blasphemy to criticise a pope! Unwise, perhaps, but Innocent is not God. He serves God. As do we all.’

  ‘I have been given cause to wonder about that,’ said Father Matthieu, venomously.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have not carried out your appointed task? Answer yes or no!’

  ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘Then’ – the man stood up and marshalled his flesh into a pose that attempted dignity – ‘Petrus Zennorius,’ he intoned, ‘I have come to bring you notice of excommunication lata sententia from Holy Mother Church!’

  ‘Well, for fuck’s sake!’ I burst out. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘For being an apostate, and for plotting harm to His Holiness Pope Innocent.’

  ‘Ridiculous. Where is your authority?’

  ‘Here.’ He brandished a large roll of parchment at me. To my amazement I saw that it did indeed carry a great leaden seal, the bull of Saint Peter. ‘Do you see it? Tremble, you insect, before the Fisherman’s justice. But in the midst of his righteous anger, the Holy Father has found it in his heart to offer you mercy.’

  ‘What, in the name of Christ’s foreskin, are you blathering about, priest?’ I demanded. He smiled a codfish smile, infuriatingly smug.

  ‘I shall burn this, and return to Rome tomorrow, if you swear the most solemn oath, on whatever holy relic might be available in this … this …’ He looked about him at the Mussulman decoration that covered walls and ceiling. ‘No matter – something will be found. Before witnesses and the holiest relics, you shall sign over the Banco di Corvo Marino to the Holy See.’

  ‘What?’ I found I had bent down, the better to look into the man’s angry little eyes. I had known all along that somehow my promise to Richard would catch up with me, but now that it had, I felt nothing but a glorious, self-righteous fury.

  Father Matthieu, perhaps blinded by his own self-righteousness, seemed to mistake my answer for interest. ‘Not so loud, my son! His Holiness is all-merciful. He has no wish to punish a good son of the Church. Go to him, confess your sins and admit your failure. Your worldly goods are forfeit, of course, but your life … Have no fear. Innocent is the emblem of all that is good in this world. Does he not do battle with Antichrist? There will be mercy for you!’

  ‘So my worldly goods will be forfeit, just like that?’

  ‘It goes without saying that, when you leave here, you will proceed directly to Lyon and prostrate yourself before His Holiness, beg his forgiveness, and pledge your unwavering loyalty. Your worldly possessions and those of your … your wife …’ He puckered his lips in plain distaste. ‘Everything of yours, everything belonging to your wife and your retainers is of course forfeit. Failure to comply will cause your excommunication to be pressed immediately – you, your wife, your dependents and employees will be investigated and put to the appropriate punishment.’ He pursed his lips as if he were turning a sour cherry around in his mouth.

  ‘So I hand over everything, as though I were a drover, or a knife-sharpener? An afterthought, eh? You have come a long way to make a bad joke, my friend. I don’t think you’re a businessman, but your master is, and he must know I’d expect a great deal more than mercy for that sort of outlay!’ I laughed in the priest’s face, and he winced as if I’d slapped him. ‘The letter – I understand now. You never intended me to deliver it, did you? It was just a ploy to make me betray myself. Innocent never wanted anything but my money.’

  ‘Why send a banker, a usurer, to do the business of princes?’ spat the priest. ‘
Like any worm in the hands of the Fisherman’ – he paused to make sure I had noted his wit – ‘your destiny was always the hook.’

  ‘Then why all this mummery? Did you expect me to die when we came ashore?’

  ‘Why not? But no, it was to part you from your viper of a wife and the shelter of the bank. You are alone here. You may squirm, but it will only bring the barb deeper into your flesh.’

  ‘Alone?’ I burst out laughing. ‘I am a crusader! Every man in God’s army is my friend! I know Innocent wants my money. He’s not the only one. I’ll tell you what is funny, though, priest: I can see the pope’s greed shining out of your eyes.’ I had spent all day pretending to fight, and so my body was acting quicker than my mind, otherwise I might not have done what I did next, which was to reach out and snatch the parchment from the priest’s fat little hand.

  ‘The pope is threatening me? With this?’ I said. Father Matthieu saw my face harden and he lunged for the bull as I wrenched at it and ripped a great tear down the middle of the roll. For a moment we both looked at each other in shocked surprise. I had certainly not meant to do that. Could you tear up a bull of excommunication? Probably not. But I did. As the priest danced around me shrieking imprecations and banishments I tore the parchment into ribbons and flung them up into the air. All I was left with was the disc of lead stamped with Saint Peter’s keys. I hefted it in my hands.

  ‘Follow me,’ I barked at Father Matthieu. In the corner of my courtyard was a well. Ignoring the priest, who was now raving incoherently, I marched over to it and dropped the seal into its dark mouth. There was silence, and then far below, a hollow plop.

  ‘There,’ I said.

  ‘You … In God’s name!’ sputtered Father Matthieu. And then he mastered himself. ‘I am on the Holy Father’s business. Apostate, I should thank you, because you have condemned yourself! Now, this very minute, I am going to King Louis—’

  ‘And tell him you and the pope are working to doom his crusade? If you think your word will count for anything, remember that while I’m probably his chief financier for this campaign, I’m also the king’s Purveyor of Relics. I have dedicated years of my life to helping him realise his dearest, most pious ambitions.’

  ‘You are putting your head in the noose, you Ghibbeline filth! And after you were given fair warning! Cardinal John—’

  ‘Cardinal John is a fool,’ I snarled, ‘and an ungodly schemer. If this is his doing, it is my pleasure to defy you.’

  His eyes narrowed: he looked like a plump, pallid lizard stalking a big moth. ‘But the letter …’ he whispered, and I could have sworn I saw a blunt tongue-tip moisten his lips. ‘You are still a traitor, Black Dog Knight – Black Heart, perhaps they’ll call you, eh?’

  ‘The letter bears Pope Innocent’s seal, not mine. Please go ahead and tell the king about it, after you have presented yourself as the pope’s emissary. And now, since I do not see you jumping into this well after your badge of office, I will tell you the truth.’ I had him backed against the date palm. ‘The letter has not been delivered. Nor will it be. I am loyal to no man through the swearing of oaths, or through piety or fear. But I am loyal to my friends, Father Matthieu, and to my debtors: and Louis Capet is both things. I am going to war tomorrow. And so is the king. Even if he had time for your spew, you have no proof, no proof at all! Well, do you? Where is your bull, and your precious scrawling? Where, come to that, is the letter, eh?’

  ‘You think you have mastered Rome, but you have not, servant of Antichrist!’ sputtered the priest. ‘Do you really believe such a great enterprise would be entrusted to a creature like you alone? Are you so prideful to think that the Holy Father placed this responsibility in no other hands but yours? And that we cannot simply reach out and take what we wish?’

  If I had listened to what Father Matthieu said to me next, I might have been spared what befell me in the months that followed, for I would not have stayed in Egypt, and I might have killed the vile little man on the spot. But because he started to rant about Iselda, and Venice, and because I did not want to be soiled by the kind of slanders a man like Matthieu would have slithering around in his mouth, instead I turned my back on him and went to fetch the watchmen of the house, who came running with their staves, and, with great relish, set to throwing the priest out into the street. I was furious, of course: seething with anger, because I knew as well as did Father Matthieu that an excommunication does not vanish if you flush it down a well. But, so I reasoned, the Church could do nothing to me here, and I had bought some time. The pope was testing my resolve, but I was out of his reach. I would go south with Louis, try to discover something that I could turn to my advantage – even, perhaps, something that would please Richard of Cornwall, and then hurry back to Italy. Frederick von Hohenstaufen seemed to want my help, and wasn’t he an excommunicate? It meant nothing. In fact, it was an honour, I told myself. Earl Richard was the pope’s friend. He would sort this out for me. And ignoring the cries from the street as the watchmen saw off the pope’s messenger, I went off to get myself ready for the march on Cairo.

  We set off the next day. Father Matthieu d’Allaines had not shown his face again. The trumpets blew, the flags fluttered limply from the battlements of Damietta, and the queen stood forlornly, her hand on her swollen belly, surrounded by the old knights who would not be coming with us. As we rode off she waved, and Louis waved back, absent-mindedly. Then he galloped off to speak with his commanders. I wanted to wave to Queen Marguerite myself, and tell her not to worry, that we would be back before her child was due. But of course I could not, though I did turn once, when we had gone quite some way, and she was still standing there under the flags that had surrendered to the heavy air.

  A great army it was, swaying and stamping its way south, thrusting itself towards Cairo like a vast, muscled arm, swollen with pride and faith. Many thousands strong, the column swayed and tramped, stirring up a long cloud of dust, a mile or more separating the mounted nobility and knights at the front from the toiling engineers who brought up the rear, cursing the oxen who dragged the timber – a forest’s worth – that would become siege engines to destroy the walls of Cairo. This was God’s army, so there was no straggling shadow-force of whores and camp-followers. And because this would be a quick campaign against a degenerate enemy, we had brought few supplies with us. Cairo was not far away, and we would live off this fertile land in the meantime. Whores we had shunned, and comfort we scoffed at, but we had nothing to fear, for a big, brash company of priests and their acolytes and servants marched just behind the knights, singing the Lord’s songs as we thundered along in search of men to kill.

  Almost at once we struck our first obstacle. The Nile was doing what the Nile does at that time of year: flooding the countless arms through which it reaches the sea with roiling, muddy water, though the floods were quickly receding. One of these arms was flung across our path, and we spent a day and a night damming it up so that we could cross over. This happened again and again, and then the Saracens attacked. There was a short and what one might call a neat battle, in which the Templars, who had been driven almost to the point of delirium by boredom in the camp outside Damietta, slaughtered every single Mussulman who had ridden against us, and there must have been five hundred of them, in less time than it takes to boil an egg. Thus refreshed, the army of God proceeded on its way.

  South we went, on a muddy track that ran alongside the river. The mood of the army was downright jolly: it was as if we were all on some merry summer pilgrimage, the kind of pilgrimage in which beer and wenches play a solid part, save there were no wenches and not a drop of beer. But I was content to ride Tredefeu, who had accepted me over the months of jousting and charging after fleeing Saracens, and these days only bit Warren when the lad was careless with the hoof pick. Crocodiles slithered into the water as we passed, and strange birds teemed in the reeds, high as a house, that grew everywhere in spinneys and thickets. There were pink birds, and long-legged white ones with bald, bl
ack faces and long, curving beaks, and small brightly coloured ones that swarmed around the banks of the river, that were turning into little cliffs of mud now that the flood was going down in earnest. We saw the enemy rarely. They had pulled back all the way to Cairo, so we told each other, and that was because they already knew they were beaten.

  One morning, as the mists were lifting off the marshes and the birds were vying with each other to bruise our eardrums with their cries, one of the pickets came into camp, leading a mud-spattered fellah. He was a Christian, come to sell news from Cairo for a few coins, and what news it proved to be. Sultan Ayub was dead. The poison he had been given before the battle of Damietta had finally done its work. There was a great uproar from the noble tents, loud enough to give the marsh birds some competition, for it seemed that the sultan’s only son was far off, beyond Damascus, and Egypt had no ruler save the sultan’s widow, whom Joinville called an Armenian whore. A woman on the throne? Cairo was defenceless!

  Amid the rejoicing, and the bragging about victories not yet won, I slipped away to ponder my own troubles. Perhaps they had suddenly diminished. My task was to deliver a letter to Sultan Ayub. It was Ayub to whom Pope Innocent had made overtures. It was Ayub who controlled the armies of Egypt. Who, now, could I make my promises to? This Armenian widow – she would not, of course, be a whore – was called Shajar ad-Durr, and I knew a little about her from the Cairene traders I dealt with. She was wily and hard, so they said. She would be doing everything she could to make sure her son became sultan. But she would be fighting for her son and for her own life, and promises from an infidel would mean nothing. So I was free.