by Dan Davis
“Your lack of shame is unbecoming,” Thomas said.
I scoffed. “She is my wife. I need feel no shame.”
“Not for laying with her,” he snapped. “For your deception.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “You regret my presence, then?”
“Yours? No. Your wife’s? I fear it will only add to my burdens.” He looked me in the eye. “Yet, on the whole, I believe I shall be glad to have you.” A smile twitched on his lips. “If not merely for the chance to have courteous conversation.”
“I have been called many things in my long life,” I said. “But never before has my conversation been called courteous.”
“Your long life?” he said, smirking at what he thought to be my youthful perspective. “When you get to my age, you may speak in such a manner.”
I was unsure how he would react if I told him that I was eighty-four years old.
“It seems like a long time,” I said.
“You speak of your quest for vengeance,” Thomas said.
“I suppose I do,” I admitted. “William has eluded me for years.”
“What has led you to believe he is with the Tartars?”
I wished I could explain how I trawled the edges of Christendom for traces of William’s evil. How I had been drawn to the holy wars with the Moors and Saracens and pursued tales of his particular brand of messianic, blood-fuelled violence. All to no avail. Nothing but faint echoes of William. Stories of an English, or Norman, or French knight who had drunk the blood of an enemy on the battlefield, or a townsperson in an alleyway. Tales of a spree of grisly murders in a region that remained unexplained, other than by the blaming of witchcraft, demons, Jews, or foreigners.
Decades of frustration while Eva and I had earned our daily bread by fighting for one lord or another.
And then there had come the tales of the Tartars. The barbarian horsemen from the East, raiding and doing battle with the Rus and Hungarians in the north and the Christian kingdoms of Armenia and Georgia in the Caucasus. The reports were confused and confusing. Some said it was little more than the usual raiding from those lawless people of the steppe. Others said that great armies numbering in the tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands had crushed Christian forces. Stories of cities being razed and people enslaved were not unusual, yet they told also of entire populations being slaughtered beneath their own walls. Lurid tales told of the Tartars killing in creative fashion, torturing defeated lords by crushing them beneath a table supported by writhing bodies while the victors feasted and drank upon it.
It sounded like William. If he was not involved already, I reasoned, he would be drawn to them sure as a lion is drawn to the stench of death.
“I knew William would seek them out,” I said to Thomas. “He is himself a bloodthirsty heathen barbarian at heart and yet he believes himself to be in God’s protection. And so, when I came once again to Constantinople, I asked the Venetians and Genoese to listen for tales of such a man in the company of the Tartars. It did not take long.”
“And what did you hear?”
“That the Tartar prince, Batu, has a foreign Christian with him. A man named William.”
Thomas nodded. “Many of the Tartars are Christian, so they say. We know that the great Batu is said to be considering a conversion to Christianity. And Batu’s son, Sartak, is himself a Christian.” He paused. “A Nestorian Christian, of course. So they say.”
“So they say,” I agreed.
Thomas’ eyes flicked over my shoulder to something behind me.
I whipped around with my hand on the hilt of the dagger on my belt.
“All is well, sir,” Thomas said, placing a hand on my arm.
Before he had spoken, I was already relaxed. For it was only the junior Franciscan, Stephen Gosset. The fair-haired young man lurked a few paces aft, glancing in our direction.
“What in the name of God’s hands does that little turd want?”
Thomas coughed at my blasphemy. “I fear he wants to speak to me.”
“Well, why does he not approach?” I turned and raised my voice. “Come here, then, lad. What in the name of God are you lurking about for?”
The monk hitched up his habit and ran down the hatch to the lower deck.
“I ask you, Thomas,” I said. “Are monks the most useless creatures to ever crawl upon the Earth?”
“I believe he is somewhat afraid of you.”
“Of me?” I said, in a voice raised due to my incredulity. “Why would he be afraid of me?”
Thomas sighed. “Truly, I could not say.”
“Well, so, why did he want to speak to you?” I said. Although I could not say precisely why, I did feel somewhat rejected by the pathetic young English monk.
“I suspected he was hoping to leave the Franciscans and join my order, perhaps because he seeks excitement that the poor brothers lack. Stephen is quite fascinated with my tales. He has been hounding me for these months since we left Acre.”
“Your tales?” I was confused. “Are you a secret troubadour?”
“Tales of my battles with the Saracens and the northern pagans,” Thomas said, smiling. “And particularly of my battles with the Tartars.”
“You fought the Tartars?” I was astonished. “Where? When?”
He opened his mouth but before he could answer, a muffled shriek split the air. I was already moving toward the source of the sound when the shouting started. An eruption of angry voices down below yelling with full-throated vitriol.
Eva.
I leapt through the hatch and down the steps to the lower deck. I pushed forward through the cramped, stinking crew quarters and then ran sideways between stacked chests of cargo with my head lowered under the crossbeams. My heart hammered from fear, from the knowledge that my wife was in danger, from the rising panic and rage that filled me, body and soul.
Right forward, in our passenger section, the narrow space between the cabins was filled with shouting men. Between them and me was the forward ladder up to the hatch above. It was dim, light filtering down from the daylight above and from lanterns hung in the cabins.
Bertrand was roaring, venting his spleen about something of enormous importance, while Hughues was shouting also. Another voice cut through; a high, unmanly voice.
I swung around the ladder and half-tripped over young Stephen, who was crouching in the shadows and watching the commotion from a safe distance. I swore and shoved him aside with my shoe, causing him to fall very roughly. I did not cease my forward momentum and instead leapt forward into the fray.
The large men had their backs to me, hunched over in the confined space. Hughues, the squire, had his dagger in hand while Bertrand had one meaty hand on the squire’s shoulder and the other braced upon the beams above. What they were shouting at, forward under the prow, I could not see.
Moving with the rolling of the ship, I charged between the two men. Stamping my foot into the back of Hughues’ knee, I pulled him back off his feet with one hand. At the same time, I drove my other fist into Bertrand’s lower back. And then pushed against him with both hands. The huge knight fell against the cabin partition, cracking his head on a beam and cursing even as he fell.
I moved forward between them.
There was Eva. Facing me, standing with her back to the prow, gripping a dagger in one hand.
She was angry but appeared unhurt.
The servant boy Nikolas that Rubruck had purchased in Constantinople stood in front of her, little more than half her height.
“Get back,” he snarled at me, speaking in heavily-accented French and brandishing a small, rusted eating knife. He had vomit on his chin and on the front of his tunic. “Stay back from the lady.”
“All is well,” Eva said to me, with a nod. She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “All is well, Nikolas.” She patted him.
Friar William and Friar Bartholomew stood in the open doorways of their own cabins, canvas curtains pulled back, looking out at the scene with expressions o
f complete shock on their faces.
I turned as Bertrand began roaring in protestation.
“Your woman is mad, Englishman.” The massive knight and lord dragged himself to his feet, his big face as red as a slapped arse. “She needs to be locked away. She needs to be taught a lesson. By God, I will teach it to her.”
He jabbed his finger in the air while he held on to the ship as it rolled. Behind him, the squire Hughues got to his feet, clutching his face. Blood welled through his fingers and his tunic was already soaked at the top. I did not recall injuring him so but that is often the way.
“Did you hear me?” Bertrand said. He shuffled forward and placed a hand upon the hilt of his sword.
He drew a third of it as he approached.
My own sword was at my hip.
I did not draw it.
“Stop,” I said. I forced as much volume, authority, and contempt as I could into the single word.
Bertrand paused.
“What kind of man are you to threaten a woman with a weapon?” I said, sneering. “Put your sword away.”
“She is no woman, she—”
I roared him down. “Put your sword away, sir.”
He shoved it back into his scabbard. “She must be punished,” he said, in a more civilised tone.
“Tell me what you think happened,” I said.
“Are you blind?” Hughues the squire wailed. “She has cut my face, you fool. She has cut off my damned face.”
Bertrand growled at him to be silent and then turned to me. “My squire has been assaulted. There must be restitution.”
“Why did she cut him?” I asked Bertrand.
Hughues stuttered. “All I did was—”
“Silence,” Bertrand shouted at his squire. “Another word from you unbidden and I truly will slice off your face.” He turned to me. “Hughues wished to make an apology to your woman. However, she attacked him with a blade, as you can see for yourself.”
I sidled over so I could turn to Eva while also keeping an eye on Bertrand. “And what do you say happened, Eva?”
Her face was grim but her voice loud, clear and steady as a rock. “I was asleep in my bunk. I awoke to find Hughues leaning over me, his breath hot on my face and his hand on my shoulder, holding me down. He whispered at me to be silent as he placed the hand over my mouth while holding a dagger in front of my face. I took up my own dagger from beneath my blanket and lashed out. I decided not to slit his throat and instead pushed him from the cabin. Then he began to wail like an old woman and here we all are.”
I looked around at the monks. “Are there any witnesses?”
They shook their heads and avoided my eye. Monks are men who are paralysed by violence. That is why they become monks.
Bertrand spluttered. “This is not a trial. You have no authority to judge guilt or declare innocence and my squire has been grievously harmed with no cause by that—”
“You are lucky, sir,” I said, raising my voice so that it filled the ship. Then I waited while he frowned in confusion. “You are lucky, sir, that I do not cut off your squire’s head and throw it and the rest of him into the sea this very moment.” He began to object once more but I did not give him the chance. “You will take your squire up onto the deck and explain to him that ravishing a woman is against the law. And wash out that wound with sea water, lest it becomes corrupted and rots his head from the inside. Go now.”
I turned my back on him and went to Eva. It was a risk to do so but I knew that such blustering men were, as a rule, cowardly in their hearts. And a coward loves nothing more than being given instructions to follow. Perhaps Bertrand understood my gibe about ravishing a woman was aimed at his own transgression in Acre and that served to confound his indignation. Whatever the reason, they stomped up the ladder, blocking the light for a moment and then they were gone, their shoes stomping away on the upper deck.
I glanced over my shoulder to ensure we were indeed safe, for the time being and noticed that behind the ladder, Thomas lurked in the shadows amongst a group of grinning crewmen. Catching my eye, the old Templar nodded once and moved away forward on the lower deck.
I asked Eva, with a look, whether she was well. She rolled her eyes and shoved her dagger into her belt.
The little slave Nikolas was still standing in front of my wife, between the two of us, staring at me with distrust in his eyes.
“Why did you place yourself in harm’s way, boy?” I asked him.
He frowned and looked down. “I am sorry, lord,” he said. His Greek accent was very thick but his use of French was perfectly fine.
“You have done nothing wrong. But what did you think you could do against two such men?”
He shrugged, still looking down. “Protect the lady, sir.”
“And who taught you to do that?”
He was confused. “Taught me, sir?”
“Who trained you, instructed you, that it was a man’s duty to protect women?”
The slave kept staring at his toes. “I am sorry but I do not understand, sir.”
I looked up at Eva who merely shrugged.
Reaching down, I took hold of his besmirched chin and tilted his head up. “How many years have you, boy?”
He frowned. “Mad Alex said I was ten when he sold me to master William.”
I had no idea who Mad Alex was but presumably a slave trader or former master.
“Show me that knife,” I commanded.
He handed it up and I took it from him. It was perhaps two inches long, the edge on it as blunt as the handle, which was poorly wrapped in an ancient strip of leather that was coming apart.
I handed it back to him. “You have the heart of a knight, young Nikolas and you should have a knight’s weapon. But you are too small for a sword. Until you get taller, you must use this.”
From my belt, I took my dagger in its decorated leather sheath and held it out to him.
The blade was an excellent steel that held a wicked edge for months. But the real beauty of the thing was the ivory hilt. There was a glorious and deep carving on both sides of Saint George at full charge, driving his lance into the body of the dragon while it writhed around the wound in a most lifelike fashion. As if the dragon was snarling at the knight and about to bite his head off. As if the outcome of the battle between the man and the beast was far from a foregone conclusion. It had cost me more than I could spare twenty years earlier from a master smith in Antioch.
Nikolas reached up, slowly, hands shaking all the way and then clutched the sheathed blade to his filthy, narrow little chest.
Eva clipped him across the head, but softly. “What do you say, boy?” she said.
“Thank you, sir,” Nikolas said and he ran off to his bunk.
I saw the dragoman, our interpreter Abdullah laying on his bunk and staring out at me. “Bloody Saracens,” I said. “Where were you, eh? Grown man, laying there and doing nothing?”
Abdullah simply turned over in his bunk, facing away from me.
The two older monks were clucking over Stephen and examining his arm by probing it with their fingers while the young man winced. I recalled how I had injured Stephen in my haste to rescue Eva. All three of them at once caught my eye and scowled before turning away from me.
“Tell me, my love. Why do I make enemies everywhere I go?” I wondered aloud.
“We all reap what we sow,” Eva said. “We will take turns sleeping from now on. While the other stands watch.”
***
We arrived then in Soldaia in late May. The city stood at the apex of the triangle that is the Crimean Peninsula, on the south side, and it looked across towards Sinopolis. It was a trading centre at the extreme borders of dozens of lands. Thither came all the merchants arriving from Russia and the northern countries who wished to pass into Turkia. The latter carried vair and minever, and other costly furs. Others carried cloths of cotton or bombax, silk stuffs, and sweet-smelling spices.
The city was subject to the Tartars and ever
y year had to pay a great tribute to Prince Batu, else their thriving city would be destroyed by the barbarians. However, they paid that tribute with false but prompt enthusiasm and so were left alone to do their trade, and to become wealthy even in spite of the payments they provided to their overlords. As far as I knew, the city prefects were more than pleased with the arrangement, despite being Christians under the rule of pagan savages.
Although some citizens were Genoese, others were their enemies the Venetians, and many more still were Rus and the like, those unpleasant folk with squashed features and cold-ravaged skin. There were Greeks in their hundreds or thousands for all I know, and Bulgars and other people from the diverse lands all about us. Who the natives were I have no idea, although it was probably the Greeks, as they had founded so many places on the Black Sea just as they had on the shores of the Mediterranean.
Others there, living as well as trading, were the Saracens. Chiefly, those that were Turks but also those from Syria and other far-off lands. And amongst them, and over them too, were the peoples who were from the steppe. Advising, guarding, and taking stock of all that went on there, with their cunning eyes and their tails of bowing scribes who made certain that the Tartar lords were not being cheated or plotted against.
“This is a strange land,” I said to Eva as the ship bobbed outside the port. “Strange people.”
“This is what you want,” Eva pointed out. “Always seeking what is over the horizon, never settled in one place. You revel in strangeness.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with her accusations. “I go where William’s trail leads.”
She scoffed. “You go where your heart leads.”
Reaching along the rail, I took her hand and peered into her suspicious eyes. “My heart leads only to you.”
“I know what part of you leads to me,” she said, lowering her voice. “And it is not your heart.”
Nevertheless, she held on to my hand.
Looking around, I saw the man I wanted. “Abdullah,” I cried. “Come here.”
The scrawny man came forward along the deck, his bony shoulders bent inward. He was a young man, or young enough, but it had taken me days to realise the fact. He had the appearance of an ancient creature, beaten down by the regular blows of disappointment. Thomas had purchased him in Acre and claimed that, for all the man’s obvious misery, his ability with languages was second to none. He was said to have detailed knowledge of the lands of the Tartars, their languages, and their customs. He also claimed to have once been a famed scholar at a great house of learning so he was likewise clearly a great liar.