‘I thank you, children of my old friend. But I do not wish for money,’ said Nizam. ‘I have no use for it.’ Dimitri looked at him in amazement.
‘But it is yours,’ I protested. ‘To do with what you will. You can throw it in the Nile for all I care, my brother.’
‘And turn the crocodiles into bankers?’ laughed Nizam. He rubbed his forehead with the side of his thumb. ‘No, we shall not do that. Here is what shall come to pass. I give my share to Isaac, my dear friend of many voyages. And as he cannot enjoy it now, I shall give it in his name to his old school, al-Karaouine in Fes, for he often used to speak of it, and he loved learning more than any other thing.’
‘So be it,’ said Iselda.
‘And I shall buy a fleet of galleys and live like a proper Venetian until I die,’ laughed Dimitri. ‘If I cannot be one of those crocodile bankers!’
So it was decided. We had kept an orderly bank, and so it would be easy to parcel out a fourth share, though it would take a while to unload it, for on board was at least five times what the King of France had just paid for his freedom and that of his army, and it was in gold: dinars and dirhams and bezants. We took what we needed from our share, kissed Dimitri on his scarred cheeks and went aboard the galley that was still waiting for us. And then, with Nizam in the stern and us in the prow, we crossed the pale sea of early morning, with our backs towards the walls of Damietta.
I will not tell of the weeks we spent at sea with Nizam. You would ask what we learned, and I might tell you everything, or nothing at all, for in truth it makes no difference. We learned peace, but what that is, you must find out for yourself. We sang, we danced under the moon, and if I tell you that we found there a small portion of what we knew to be the truth, you must be content with that. We shed our skins, and were reborn as creatures who could feel the wind on our sun-browned skin and understand that it spoke to us. Not what it said: for that we would have needed a lifetime of study. But it was enough to know that we were held by, and that we in turn held, the presence of God.
When at last we came to Marseille just after the turn of the year – it was a long crossing, because we encouraged the captain to put into as many ports as he wished to trade – we took our leave of Nizam on deck. The galley was taking him back to Egypt, for the Mamluk regiments were in need of his teaching and he planned to spend the winter at his zãwiya. We said no words but embraced and went ashore with light hearts, because there were no goodbyes to be said. But as we looked for an inn, we found the town all abuzz with the news that Frederick von Hohenstaufen was dead.
‘It was a sickness,’ I said. ‘It’s strange. I had a dream on the ship. Michael Scotus told me.’
In the dream, I was sitting on the river bank. A boat, one of the slender feluccas that go to and fro all along the Nile, was drifting down on the current, its white sail slack. A single figure stood in the prow, and as the boat drifted closer I saw that it was Doctor Scotus. As he passed me, the boat slowed until the water was flowing around it, but the wake did not change. Michael raised his hand to me.
‘Doctor Scotus!’ I called to him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To bury the king,’ he said.
‘What king?’
‘The king of the world.’ As he said those words the river began to rise, until it flooded its banks, and the hills in the far distance were islands. But I was still dry, and Michael Scotus’s boat was motionless, although the sails had filled.
‘After all this, to die of the flux,’ I said to Iselda. ‘The Wonder of the World. Christ, how Innocent must be crowing.’
‘There’s nothing binding you now,’ said Iselda. ‘If the emperor’s dead, Innocent won’t care about Sicily or Earl Richard. Richard didn’t really want Sicily, did he? He just didn’t want to pass up a chance at making some money.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘But I’m still bound. He’s still my liege lord. If we are ever going to be free, we can’t just ignore that.’
‘So we’re still fighting, then? I’d come to believe we were free, out there with Nizam, but nothing will ever be easy for us, will it?’
‘No, it will. Richard doesn’t know it, but he is going to serve freedom up to us on a silver platter. We just have to reach out our hands, and take it.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
We sailed into the pool of London on a day in May when the sun was pawing at curtains of drizzle like a playful cat, and the trees were bright in their new robes of green. We slipped under the bridge on the flood tide and slipped into a wharf under the doleful, mossy guard of Baynard’s Castle. No one noticed us as we made our way into the city. We carried all we owned. I had thrown my borrowed armour into the Nile somewhere near the pyramids and had been wearing Saracen robes ever since. Iselda wore a curious mix of Saracen and Venetian clothes. From the looks we drew from the folk teeming in the streets, I guessed we looked like what we were: a crusader and his wife, returned from the Holy Land.
Dimitri was in the buttery of the Three Coneys. This was the inn of which the Banco owned a share. The old quartermaster was suffering from a touch of gout – nothing serious, and nothing if not the due of a rich man – and he hauled himself upright and engulfed us in a bone-cracking, wine-scented embrace. He had done as we asked, and put our money under the protection of Earl Richard. It lay in the strongroom of the earl’s banker, Wymer of Berwick, a man I had done business with in the past. Wymer was dull enough to put birds to sleep in mid-flight, but honest. The nagging worry that had been chewing gently on the inside of my stomach since we arrived in Marseille started to fade.
‘I met your earl. Very surprised, he was, when he saw whose mitts were holding all that money!’ Dimitri cackled. London had been good to him, much to his surprise. He had found a trading partner, a maker of crossbow points that he planned to sell to the Catalans. Other merchants were interested in making alliances. Now we were here, he was bound back to Venice on the first tide. ‘Not that it isn’t a great joy to see you both,’ he assured us, ‘but this city is not for the old. ’Tis damper than Venice and the sun is thinner than English wine! My joints feel like iron door hinges doused in saltwater.’
We spent that night with Dimitri, and stayed up very late, talking of our old times together. There were many tales Iselda had not heard, and I made sure she heard them. For we would not be seeing Dimitri again, not in this life. We all knew it.
‘The Ca’ Kanzir is yours if you want it,’ I told him, as the bells of the city monasteries chimed out the Midnight Office. ‘I think you’ll find, by the time you get back to Venice, that Holy Mother Church has lost interest in the house of de Montalhac and its possessions.’
‘So you are not coming back?’ said Dimitri.
‘No. Venice is our past now,’ said Iselda. ‘So is the bank, and the Cormaran.’
‘Then what will you do?’ Dimitri chuckled. ‘Lay siege to Montalhac and drive out the Frenchman who lives there? The captain …’ He paused. ‘Ach. The captain is dead, God rest his lovely soul. And I will join him soon.’ He called for more beer and the sleepy taproom boy slunk off to fetch some. ‘My village was in the lands of the Emperor of Bulgaria. It is gone now. The Greeks came and burned it, many years ago. I do not believe in home, not any more. But I thank you, again, for I will live in the Ca’ Kanzir, and when I feel like it, I will take the old Cormaran out and sail her down the coast, for then, you know, I will be home, for a time.’
‘And I will be with you, wherever I am,’ I said.
‘Amen to that,’ said Dimitri.
And ‘Amen,’ we both replied.
After we had gone with Dimitri down to the wharves and seen him aboard his ship, and after we had watched its masts slip through the bridge and become lost in the confusion of other craft, we hired a couple of horses from the innkeeper and rode out to Westminster. Iselda had never been in a city as vast as London and it was a pleasure to be her guide.
‘Mercy me! How can folk bring themselves to live this way?’ she mar
velled, eyes wide, as we negotiated the swarms and torrents of humanity that thrummed around Saint Paul’s and poured through Lud Gate. The sun was shining, and the road along the river was loud and cheerful. But when we got to the palace we soon discovered that Earl Richard was not there. He had gone to his home at Wallingford Castle. We wandered back into London and spent the rest of the day finding a boat to take us up the Thames.
So we journeyed slowly up another great river, for the Thames, to an Englishman, is every bit the Nile’s equal, and though I had seen the Nile and in truth, the English river is but a reedy sluice in comparison, I let myself fall under its spell. And spell it was, for as we sailed, the light winds giving just enough breath to fill the dark red sails, I could see that Iselda was also becoming enchanted. If Earl Richard had been at Westminster, and if the English weather had been its usual sullen self, perhaps my wife would not have let Albion work itself under her skin. I have never believed in fate. If I had, I would have spent great passages of my life believing myself accursed. But that summer, through which the rain barely fell, the wheat shimmered like a cloth of gold and every growing thing seemed to give forth a clear green light, can only have been a blessing. I had not expected Iselda to like England, being a child of the south, but to my joy I watched her fall in love with the swans and the willow trees, and with the green hills that rose in the distance, dotted with sheep or fretted by the plough.
We came to Wallingford in early June, having sent word ahead that we were on the way. The earl was out hunting when we arrived at his castle, which is a strong-walled place set among green fields. His chamberlain did not quite know what to make of the two Saracen-garbed, sunburned travellers, and I had to convince him that I was indeed Petrus Zennorius.
‘Then I am honoured to welcome the Black Dog Knight!’ he said at last, when his doubts had been overcome. He started to beam, and to call forth the servants, until Iselda and I were convinced he had mistaken us for some other couple.
‘Sir Petrus Blakke Dogge,’ he said at last, when our chambers were ready, and we had been given silver goblets of excellent Rhennish wine. ‘The hero of Mansourah!’
‘Hero?’ I said, confused. ‘You are mistaken, I’m afraid …’
‘No, no – the man who defended William Longspée’s body with your own? The man who saved the Grand Master of the Temple? I am not mistaken, my very good sir, and your modesty only makes my honour the greater!’
‘Who has been telling such tales?’ I asked, frowning.
‘Why, young FitzGilbert, of course – and you saved his life too.’
I shook my head. There was nothing I wished for less than to bring back the nightmare of Mansourah.
‘The bastard son of the Earl of Hereford. The only Englishman to survive the … the folly, one must call it, of King Louis’s crusade, or so it was thought, but since men have started to return to France there have been rumours that you also won through. All true, to my joy!’
‘So the world thought you were dead,’ said Iselda, wryly, when we were safely in our quarters, looking out across the moat. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.’
‘Richard would have found out sooner or later,’ I assured her. ‘I have learned that it is dangerous not to give him his due. Better to come to the beast’s lair, you know, than have the beast come to you.’
‘And here’s the beast now,’ said Iselda, pointing. Horses and riders were spilling over the crest of a nearby hill and scattering the sheep. Horns blew, and dogs barked. ‘We’d better get dressed,’ she said.
I put on my surcoat, the one the Mamluks had made for me. Something had kept me from throwing it into the Nile along with my armour. Iselda wore a dress that Queen Marguerite had given her. We should have looked noble, but our clothes had been crammed into satchels and thrown about from Egypt to London.
‘We look like play-actors,’ said Iselda, grinning.
‘Good,’ I told her. ‘We are.’
We need not have hurried ourselves. It was a while before we were summoned to the earl’s presence. Richard was a clever man. I knew he toyed with people – not from cruelty or for amusement’s sake, but to gain advantage – and I was perfectly aware that I should be feeling anxious. But I wasn’t. I was not the same man I had been when Richard had surprised me in Lyon. Most of me had been left behind on the banks of the Ashmoun Canal, and the rest had been transmuted by the gentle magic of Nizam. So when the chamberlain finally ushered us graciously into the solar, I was feeling nothing more than happiness at having Iselda’s hand in mine.
‘Sir Petrus!’ said Richard, imperiously. I bowed, and Iselda curtseyed gravely. ‘And the lady Iselda, I take it? Charmed, of course.’
‘You flatter me, my lord,’ Iselda murmured, charming indeed.
‘The companion of the Queen of France, one has heard,’ he went on. ‘And you, Petrus Blakke Dogge. A more reluctant crusader could not be imagined, and yet see how you have honoured England! They say you were with Salisbury when he died – poor Longspée! You must tell me everything.’
‘I shall, my lord, I shall. But not yet,’ I said. Richard frowned. ‘We have some pressing matters to discuss,’ I went on. ‘You sent me on crusade for a purpose, and I have come to settle things.’
‘Things? What things?’ Richard sounded petulant, as if a favourite plaything were not working properly.
‘You wanted me to discover whether you could win a monopoly on the trade routes out of Egypt,’ I said. ‘And if the crown of Sicily would be of profit to you. I must report that I have failed in both.’ Ignoring his deepening frown, I went on. ‘The Egyptian rulers have a treaty with Venice. The new sultan and his Mamluks despise the Genoese and the Pisans, who tried to force their advantage at Damietta. It will be Venice, and only Venice, who will control the pepper and the silks coming from India by sea. Venice played no part in Louis’s adventure, while every other Latin and Frank has proved themselves treacherous – not to mention weak and foolish,’ I added. ‘Your idea is, I’m afraid, impossible. And as to Sicily itself, now that Frederick von Hohenstaufen is dead, will the pope be so desperate to install a friend in the south of Italy? He will not. I predict that Innocent will approach you again, but this time the price will be not to your liking. Pope Innocent is a man with a terrible thirst for money. He wants the Holy See to be as magnificent as any kingdom – the most magnanimous friend and the most implacable foe. Frederick was his great fear. Now that he is dead, his sons will not worry him. Now he can turn to lining his pockets.’
‘His Holiness has approached me again,’ said Richard, slowly. ‘I saw him in Lyon just last year, and now he has sent me letters – but as you say, with no price mentioned this time. You are insolent as ever, Black Dog, but then I expect that, and what you say has some merit. But you sit here and tell me all the ways you have disappointed me. What am I to make of that? You know how I prize loyalty, my man, and now it seems that you have come a long way to pluck my beard. Well I remember you predicting your failure in Lyon. And I remember telling you that if you failed, you could expect nothing from me. And further, that I would tighten the knots of obligation that bind you to me. If that is why you have come, with your lovely wife, then I salute your good sense. But, sir, I do not see you bending your knee to me.’
‘Because that is not why we came,’ I said.
‘Then why? I have heard the stories about you. You have brought honour to yourself and, yes, to me.’ Richard was angry, but he was keeping it from boiling over. ‘But one also hears things from the Continent. The Inquisition. The anger of the pope. You have returned a hero, but you have also failed me. If you have come to ask my protection, I do not feel inclined to give it, if this is how you choose to ask.’
‘The Inquisition has already gone to work, my lord,’ said Iselda gently. ‘If you were simply after our money, I feel I should tell you that the Holy Father did his best to make sure he got it instead.’
‘What do you mean?’ Richard was struggling to remain calm.
‘I …’ Richard’s jaw, clenched to deliver some deadly thrust, was instead hanging open. ‘The bank is ruined?’
‘The bank does not even exist,’ I said. ‘It has been dissolved. I would imagine that the Templars are delighted. Personally, I could not care less.’
‘And you have come here to tell me this? I thought you were dead …’
‘And no doubt you grieved, Earl Richard. What I came to tell you is that, although the answers are not to your liking, I did your bidding. I went to Egypt, and if circumstances have made the task you gave me pointless, that is no fault of mine. I believe I am owed what you promised me.’
‘Oh, do you, sirrah? And what was that?’ Richard had recovered. But he was still angry, and though he was a subtle man, I could tell that his mind had not caught up with his spleen.
‘That you release me from my oath. And there is a manor house on the southern slope of Dartmoor with, if I remember, fifteen hides of ploughland and woods.’
‘You were always an impudent man, Petroc of Auneford,’ spat Richard. ‘But I never took you for a fool. Do you really think your oath is so important? I have a hundred vassals more useful to me. You seem to have come back from Egypt so that I might hang you, and never fear, I will. You will wait here, and you, madam, while I call the guard.’
‘But Earl Richard, that is not why we came. Didn’t you wonder why we have not flung ourselves on your mercy? We are ruined and homeless. Surely a lord is obliged to comfort his loyal servants. And I have been loyal, sir. Tell me, have you spoken to Wymer of Berwick in the last month or so?’
The Fools’ Crusade Page 34
