The Long Sword (61 page)

On the other hand, I could lay hands on three veteran archers, and John the Turk.

‘I’ll go,’ I said. We had the Cairo Gate’s stables by us and in less time than it takes a man to get armed, we had beautiful local horses for all the archers, and we were mounted in the yard. Ned Cooper and his mates had all strung their bows, and John had a panoply of looted Mamluk equipment.

We followed George.

We had heard fighting in the quarter behind the gate, and the cry of the Order; on horses, with George guiding us, we were there as quickly as we’d got mounted. I was amazed that we reached the place at all – I was so tired that when my horse stopped, I almost fell asleep inside my helmet and I was sure I couldn’t have lifted my sword.

We found a church, a Coptic church, a small, round church, unmistakably Christian. It was packed full. And on the steps outside stood the legate and Lord Grey and Sabraham and the two Greek knights, Giannis and Giorgos.

At the bottom of the broad steps stood twenty ‘crusaders’. They were English and Breton, Gascon and French. Or they might have been.

Two of the routiers were dead.

Even as we rode up by a street, another rout of brigands appeared out the alleys.

‘Burn it! Burn it!’ shouted the crusaders. ‘Death to the infidels!’

I saw d’Herblay and the Hungarian almost immediately. They were together, near the back of the crowd, and thus invisible to Sabraham, but the Hungarian’s long hair and the ribbon of pearls that confined it gave me my clues. And I knew d’Herblay. I would have known him anywhere, I think. And he was so arrogant he was wearing his surcoat.

But Fortuna was against me, and no sooner had my fatigue-addled head slowly produced their identities than d’Herblay turned, as if warned by Satan. He elbowed the Hungarian and the man looked back at me. He had a steel crossbow in his hand, the weapon the Italians call a Balestrino
.

Three horse-lengths beyond the Hungarian, backlit by the lamps burning inside the church, the legate stood unarmed and unarmoured on the steps, with a wooden cross in his hand. He was shouting that these were Christians. In fact, I could see Moors and Moslems and
Jews and Christians all huddled together on the portico, and more in the church behind.

‘Kill them all!’ roared the routiers. They pulled a man past the knights on the steps and butchered him, laughing.

Leering crusaders killed a teenage girl.

All this in two beats of my tired heart. The Hungarian raised his crossbow one-handed, but my horse was moving and he whirled – and shot.

Fortuna is a fickle mistress at the best of times. I was leaning forward on Gawain’s neck, my longsword reaching for the Hungarian’s neck, when he shot. His bolt struck the blade of my sword – and glanced away.

He parried my blow, which I confess was greatly weakened by the bolt, with the steel of his crossbow, and rolled off to my right, away from my horse.

The legate, either unaware that I was at hand, or believing that we were more routiers, suddenly plunged into the crowd. Giorgos endeavoured to cover him with his sword but the legate strode down into the mercenaries.

One of the bastards struck him with his spear haft – and he went down.

That was it for Sabraham, and for Fiore, and for Lord Grey. The men on the steps began to use force and Fiore led our party right into the backs of the routiers, the so-called crusaders.

They drove them from the square. I would not have imagined that I had more to give, that I could raise my sword. But I wanted d’Herblay.

I lost him. I was exhausted, and thirsty, and I can make other excuses, but I lost him as smoke swept over the little square in front of the church. Fighting caused men with torches to drop them, and Fiore was like an angel of the Lord, glowing in the flames. He tried to cut his way to the legate’s side.

Of course, we were killing crusaders, to save infidels and heretics.

I suppose we saved a hundred Greeks, and a handful of Jews and Moors. Many of them spat at me.

I wanted d’Herblay, but in that dark and smoky place, with the inferno all around us as Alexandria burned, what I got was Father Pierre. I can’t say I cut my way to him. I can’t even claim that I
bravely decided to save my commander instead of getting my own revenge on the man who nearly broke my body.

I stumbled over him. All I can claim is that, God having given me this sign, I didn’t step over Father Pierre and try to shed d’Herblay’s blood. Instead, I looked down. But I knew – it’s hard to say why, with the smoke, the visor of my dented helmet, my fatigue – but I knew I had him. There was a flurry of violence – a man with a spear, and all I did was beat it away.

And then I sheathed my sword, raised Father Pierre in my arms and carried him into the church. He was crying.

I had seldom seen him cry. He had taken a bad blow, and his scalp was torn. But his face held more than suffering – I had
never
seen him without hope. His small face always beamed with something from inside, some special benison he brought to the world. But, that night in hell, it was gone.

He knelt before the altar and spread his arms and fell face forward, saying, ‘Forgive them Father, they know not what they do.’

Perhaps. But I had been one of them, and I knew
exactly
what they were doing.

They were raping, looting, and killing. They were very good at these things.

And d’Herblay and the Hungarian and
his
men were out there in the darkness, still probably looking to kill the legate, even though it was now too late. The crusade was victorious. We’d taken the greatest city in the world.

The man lying full length before a ruined altar would be Pope.

If I could get him home alive.

Such is the life of arms. Or rather, such is one path on the life of arms.

We got the legate back to the Cairo Gate on a horse. The church to which the legate had gone to save its congregation was only six turnings from the gate, and yet those six streets seemed full of menace. And getting there seemed to take half the night.

I reported to Sabraham. He was wounded, and he shook his head. ‘I wish you’d got him,’ he said. He was watching the rooftops. ‘I want the legate out of here.’

As it proved, the legate wanted to be quit of the city, too. He was slow to recover, but when his eyes were open, he demanded – begged – to be taken to the king. He had decided that he could convince the king to stop the ‘crusaders’ from raping the city.

Our men had a small fire in the courtyard, and torches. Tired men were at least taking the corpses out of the towers, and a dozen captured slaves were washing the blood off the tower steps.

‘I thought that I was done,’ I said, a little bitterly.

The legate blessed me. ‘You sleep, my son. I will ride back to the ships.’

Sabraham shook his head. ‘I’ll take him,’ he said. To me, he said, ‘D’Herblay is out there. Waiting for us to move him.’

When you imagine yourself as a knight, what you imagine – if you are like I was as a boy – is that moment when the Knights of St John charged the infidel. A windswept beach. Three hundred brave men in brilliant scarlet and steel. That seems to you what knighthood will be.

But this, my friends, is where I think we find chivalry – when our throats are so parched we cannot swallow, when the smoke from a thousand fires cuts our lungs, when our armour seems to hurt us more than an enemy can, when our jupons are heavy with our sweat and our blood, and our hands won’t close properly on our swords. When all we want is sleep. Or death.

That is when we find what makes us knights, I think.

I looked around in the firelight at my friends. None of us had even dismounted. Sabraham had blood flowing over his cuisses – he’d taken a wound in his armpit. A real wound.

‘You stay,’ I said. I didn’t want to. I wanted to sleep. But: ‘We’ll take him to the ships.’

Miles leaned out across his horse’s neck, hands crossed in fatigue. ‘We should go
out
the gate and ride around,’ he said for the second time that night.

But de Midleton wouldn’t hear of it. ‘There’s Sudanese Ghulams out there, and Mamluks,’ he said. He pointed to where a dozen of the Order’s brother-sergeants were improvising a barricade. ‘I expect an attack at dawn. I’m not sending the legate out into that.’ He took me aside. ‘Let me put some food and water into him. And your poor horses, gentles. But I agree he shouldn’t stay here. If this tower falls …’

I could just about think. ‘We won’t have Coulanges,’ I said. ‘I’m worried about losing my way.’

Sabraham was being helped from his horse by a trio of serving brothers. He could scarcely stand. ‘Take George and Maurice,’ he said. ‘They know how to get around.’

He beckoned me to him. When the brothers put him down, he went all the way to the ground. And lay there.

I had to crouch by him.

‘I’ve lost a lot of blood,’ he muttered in a tiny voice. ‘Move fast. He can’t stay here. One attack – tower is lost. Get him to the ships. Please, Will!’

‘I’ll do it,’ I said. In fact, I was ready to fall asleep with my head on his chest.

One of the serving brothers pushed me aside. They were cutting Abraham’s clothes off even as he spoke. A man came up with an iron rod glowing red.

I smelled the burning flesh. For good or ill, Sabraham could offer no more advice – he was out.

I stumbled back to my horse. Poor Gawain had taken ten wounds the day before and now had been ridden all day. Oats and water kept him alive – but they didn’t make him well.

I looked over my people.

‘Friends,’ I said. ‘I need every one of you. There are men in the streets who mean to kill the legate. I have promised to get him to the ships.’

Ned Cooper turned his face to one side. ‘Kill the legate?’ he asked. ‘He’s like a fuckin’ saint, beggin’ yer pardon.’

Ewan the Scot put a finger alongside his nose. ‘I know,’ he said.

‘What do you know?’ Nerio asked.

Ewan shrugged. ‘Men come round, offering us silver for some fancy shooting.’ He laughed. ‘Guess they didn’t think you was up to it, Ned!’

‘There’s a Savoyard. D’Herblay. Anyone met him?’ I asked.

No one had. Except, of course, my friends.

We all ate. I decided, having set a few ambushes myself, that it would not hurt us to make the Hungarian wait and we all slept for an hour. We had no real way of knowing the time: no cocks crowed, there were no bells, but the Order’s men knew the hours well. Men fed and watered our horses and I had to be wakened roughly, even though I had slept in my harness.

We all had. And I ached, and so did the rest of them. But we drank hot wine with spices, which the Order’s people had going in the yard, and we chewed cloves – by Saint George, spices were all but free in Alexandria. I looked at the Emperor’s sword by firelight, and there was no dent in the blade, no kink, where the crossbow bolt had struck it. Instead, there was a scratch about as long as my little finger, as if an inexpert engraver had started to make a line. I got a stone from Davide and touched up the edge.

It was obvious to a soldier that the legate had a head wound – the kind that makes men fey and strange for days. The brothers had kept him awake, on principle, but he was having trouble speaking. I placed him with Miles. Lord Grey could not ride – a deep thrust to his right thigh.

I gathered my friends, and indeed, my whole little command. ‘Here’s my plan,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to hear it bettered. We cut across the city and go out through the same Customs Gate where we entered. It is the only way I know – and besides, we don’t know if the other gates have fallen, or are still in enemy hands.’

Maurice blew out his cheeks, but said nothing.

‘Outside the walls, we gallop. We’ll be west of the city, and I can’t see any enemy making for there in the dark, with a tide of refugees around them. We make our way
past
the crusader fleet and take the legate to the Order.’

Stapleton narrowed his eyes. ‘He
asked
to be taken to the king.’

I nodded. ‘So he did,’ I agreed. ‘Any other questions?’

Maurice frowned. ‘We will move quickly? What about prickers? Outriders?’

I shrugged. ‘I was hoping the archers would agree to lead the way.’

Ewan laughed. ‘Is there any money in this?’ he asked. ‘I see you’re all soldiers of God, an’ all. But everyone else is looting, and we’re here working an’ getting killed.’ He looked around and spat. ‘Not yet, mind. But this here’s a mad trick, ridin’ across a city gettin’ sacked.’

Ned Cooper looked at me like a shy maiden – a particularly old and ill-favoured shy maiden. ‘True knights is generous’ he said. ‘The Black Prince used to offer us a douceur when we was missin’ out on the loot.’

Miles all but spat. I’m glad he didn’t. ‘The legate is every man’s friend, and has held this expedition together,’ he insisted. ‘He trusts the English more than any!’

‘More fool he,’ Ewan said. ‘Fuckin’ English. Present company, eh, Ned?’

I glanced at Nerio. Nerio laughed. He had lines on his face like an old man, and the firelight made him look older and more dissipated than his father. But his laugh was his old laugh. You might have thought there was a wench in the offing.

He nodded. ‘Twenty ducats a man when we reach the ships,’ he said.

Ewan raised his eyebrows and frowned at the same time. ‘
Eh bien
,’ he said.

Rob Stone, hitherto silent, said, ‘Amen.’

Ewan spat on his hands. ‘Let’s ride,’ he said.

John the Turk looked at Nerio. ‘Me, too?’ he asked.

Nerio laughed. He turned to me. ‘Jesus had it all wrong, brother,’ he said. ‘He should have offered to pay men to behave well.’

Fiore laughed. ‘I could use twenty ducats, too,’ he said, which was as close to making a joke as I ever heard the Friulian come.

About ten more minutes passed while the legate was prepared. We tied him to a borrowed warhorse. I rubbed Gawain down, gave him a little water, and he seemed spirited. He was a far better horse than I had thought, back at Mestre.