The Green Count

by Christian Cameron

  John was drunk. He came and lay down – we were all on rugs and pillows, and it was very late, or very early.

  ‘This, sir, a very fine woman,’ he said. ‘And many here would have her as wife.’ He laughed, but I looked around in worry.

  Sabraham shook his head. ‘It is a compliment,’ he said. ‘These are wild people. They do not live as we live, and they only speak truth.’

  ‘You admire them,’ I said.

  Sabraham’s eyes sparkled. ‘If I could be anyone,’ he said, ‘I would ride away with these people, and be a Kipchak on the great plain. They are free.’

  ‘They are infidels!’ I said, or something equally inane.

  He laughed. ‘They are Mongols,’ he said. ‘They are themselves.’

  And later still, by moonlight, we were riding. I confess I can’t remember whose idea it was to race on horseback in the dark with torches, but we did, out into the hills.

  And Emile was on the stallion I’d just received from the emir. She rode beautifully, and though she had not ridden much with the short stirrups the locals used, she was up to the challenge. She was a light, expert rider on a big horse, and she and another women outdistanced us all, their torches vanishing into a valley and up the other side, and John laughed.

  ‘Oh, she will win,’ he complained.

  And she did. She stood in the caravanserai’s courtyard, flushed, and magnificent; her smile went from ear to ear, and her eyes sparkled like jewels by the light of a hundred torches.

  By then the gates were locked, and we were outside the town, and Sabraham said he was going to find some straw and sleep. He stumbled off, and so did the Turks, one by one and two by two.

  ‘You are magnificent,’ I said to Emile. I could not think of anything else to say. She was like some pagan goddess, and in her triumph, I saw a different woman – the woman she might have been with the Turks, perhaps. Would she have been a war leader? Or just a good chieftain, an Amira. Certes, I saw in her the huntress; I had only seen her like this once before, and that was hawking with Nerio.

  ‘Magnificent?’ she asked.

  In fact, she seemed to glow; the kohl made her eyes huge, even a little smudged from riding fast.

  ‘I don’t want this ever to end,’ she said.

  And then we wandered, hand in hand, until we found enough privacy to make love, and then …

  Well. There was no sleep at all.

  And that was also Adalia.

  I was barely alive when we sailed, and neither was Emile, and if I did anything to get my people on board, I don’t remember it. Marc-Antonio was difficult, and John was mocking, and it was later afternoon before I realised that perhaps I should be surprised that my Kipchak was still with me.

  ‘You didn’t want to stay with your friends?’ I asked.

  ‘You are my friend,’ he said, and clasped my hand. ‘And Emile,’ he said, calling her by name. ‘She my friend, you my friend, even Marc Anton a friend, for a boy. We go and make good war. I go home rich.’ He nodded. ‘All good.’

  Adalia was a dividing line in my marriage, as well. Before it, we were lovers. After, we were one. I cannot say it better. I came to know her, and she came to trust me.

  Which was good.

  The third day out of Adalia, we saw the castle of Rhodes break the horizon, and Emile took my hand and kissed me.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said. ‘And we have been to Jerusalem.’

  Constantinople

  May 1366 – September 1366

  If our pilgrimage was a dream of going to Jerusalem, Rhodes was the rude awakening.

  Or perhaps not so rude, at first. But our first three days were full of the hard realities that had never worried us when we were riding across the Holy Land and in fear for our lives, or worshipping at shrines.

  Within two hours of landing, Sabraham and I appeared before the Grand Master Raymond Berenger, whose Catalan French I found difficult to understand. He lisped.

  It might have been adversarial, but the Grand Master put us at ease by going to the window of his solar and looking out over the harbour. There, riding alongside a stone pier, were our two captured galliots, towed all the way to Rhodes by the Genoese. The Order was buying them both, as apparently Maestro Parmenio had expected.

  ‘A good empris,’ the Grand Master said.

  Come, said I to myself, that’s a good start. I was still thrilled that I would be a father; thrilled that I was married.

  Then Sabraham described the caravan from beginning to end as I sat silent, fidgeting with my sword hilt. But when Sabraham was done, Grand Master Berenger began to question me, and his questions were uncomfortable.

  ‘You married the Comtesse d’Herblay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said. I heard the ice in his tone.

  ‘With whose permission?’ he asked. ‘Did you have the permission of her sovereign lord, the Green Count of Savoy?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, My Lord.’

  He nodded. ‘And Peter de Mortimer gave his consent for you to wed, I take it?’ he asked.

  Oh, I do not like to burn a friend.

  Sabraham spoke up. ‘Yes, Fra Peter gave his consent after a tribunal.’

  I had forgotten the tribunal. It had, indeed, been quite friendly.

  Berenger nodded and steepled his hands. ‘So. There was a tribunal.’ He looked at me. ‘You intend to continue to serve the Order, young man?’

  I was, in fact, uncertain. ‘I must consult my lady wife,’ I said. ‘And I have promised Ser Renerio Acciaioli to serve him in the Morea when he asks.’

  Berenger ran his fingers through his beard. One does not get to be Grand Master of the Hospitallers without enormous political sense. He raised a hand and Fra Robert Hales came in. The Englishman frowned at me – not a good sign – and went and listened to the Grand Master, and then whispered in his ear.

  Then he smiled at me.

  In English, he said, ‘You will do the Order good service in Greece.’ He bowed, and left the room.

  Berenger watched him go. ‘Fra Robert reminds me that the Acciaioli clan are our allies in the Morea, and that his brother the Bishop of Patras has our writ for our lands in the south.’ He nodded. ‘So – you are a brave young man, and your caravan to Jerusalem will be accepted. Sabraham, you are, as usual, indispensable.’

  ‘I make every effort,’ he said. ‘But Sir William was in command.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ Berenger said.

  The Grand Master leaned back. I could see that he had high boots and spurs on under his brown gown; a clash of cultures, the man of the church and the man of war.

  ‘Tell me of Adalia, Sir William,’ he said.

  I had the feeling that this, and nothing else, was the real reason we’d been summoned on such short notice.

  I told him everything I remembered, which did not include the name of the emir, so that I worried I sounded a fool, but Sabraham had all the names at his fingertips, and he laughed when I called Murad Bey’s men ‘Ottomanids.’

  ‘Well put,’ he said. ‘You are getting the hang of this.’

  The Grand Master frowned. ‘Murad Bey is surely Murad Sultan, now?’

  ‘And owner of a third of Europe,’ Fra Robert said, returning with a basket of parchment scrolls. He handed two to the Grand Master and then kicked a stool over from the wall. ‘I had not heard that the emperor had gone to Hungary. I begin to fear that Amadeus of Savoy, the Green Count, has made a separate agreement to lead a very different crusade. Sir William, are you certain that this emir was offering you an alliance against Murad?’

  I looked at Sabraham for support. Sabraham looked at his scabbard.

  ‘I wish I had been there,’ Sabraham said.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe he was just playing Sir William,’ Hales said.

&nbs
p; Berenger frowned. ‘We must know. I’d be delighted to have an alliance with Damat Ali Bey against his brother-in-law.’

  ‘I could go back,’ I said.

  Sabraham nodded. ‘I’ll go back,’ he said, quite happily. ‘I speak the language.’

  Well, that was that, and it was ten years and more before I went back myself, but that’s another story.

  The Grand Master dismissed us, and then, as we rose, said, ‘Who is this infidel scholar you have in your train, Sir William?’

  It was true; Hafiz-i Abun had sailed with us. He was going on to Constantinople and thence across the Black Sea to his home in Persia, and the Genoese offered him passage at least as far as Lesvos and possibly Galata.

  ‘A harmless man, My Lord. A scholar – and a fine man-at-arms. We fought pirates together.’ I tried a smile.

  No one else was smiling. ‘We are not friends with infidels, Sir William,’ the Grand Master cautioned. ‘He has a Christian slave on board that ship.’

  Almost, I snapped a retort about Damat Ali Bey and the Karamanids. It was in my mouth and in my head to speak.

  Sabraham nodded. ‘We understand, My Lord, but the Persian gentleman opened many doors and was an ally.’

  ‘See to it that he gains no information about the Order during his visit. Where is he to lodge?’ the Grand Master asked in his lisping voice. ‘Offer to purchase his Christian slave. Do not accept “no” as an answer.’

  I bowed and looked at Fra Robert Hales, who was, next to the Prior of England, the next most senior Englishman in the Order. ‘I’d hoped to bring him to our langue,’ I said. ‘His master is in Persia.’

  Have I mentioned this before? The langues are the Order’s houses, so that the knights and brothers have the comfort of living with men who speak the same language. This can be odd; the English langue includes the Irish, for example – trust me, we don’t speak the same language.

  That’s beside the point. The English langue is the finest on Rhodes and has the best rooms, and the best wine and beer, as well.

  Fra Robert nodded. ‘Yes. The shahs and the khans. Persia is a very complicated place. I would love a word with this worthy gentleman, and with a scribe to hand. The English langue will do very well.’

  We all bowed, and I thought my troubles were over.

  Certainly, in the next day, it appeared so. Having made a pilgrimage, armed, and had it ‘counted’ as a caravan, I was able to put a gold border on my arms, and I noted that knights of the Order spoke to me with a little less condescension. I happened to meet my former nemesis, Fra Daniele, with the admiral, Ferlino di Airasca, at Matins, and he bowed to me – an unheard-of courtesy – and when he passed me, whispered, ‘Two galliots for the fleet?’

  And Fra Ferlino grinned. ‘I’m in your debt, Englishman. We need every ship this summer.’

  For the rest, though, it was complication on complication. Nothing in Rhodes is done for the convenience of a married knight. My wife could only stay with the nuns without me; indeed, one of the senior sisters protested that, as a married woman whose husband was nearby, she threatened to involve them all in carnal sin, and the good sister did not know how nearly correct she was.

  And men-at-arms cost money at the best of times, but now, they were no longer layabout crusaders. They were, in every way, my retinue. That meant inns, and food, and money.

  And Nerio, the endless source of my false wealth, was suddenly a dry well. It hurt him; he seemed to shrink.

  The moneylenders all refused him any advance, nor would anyone on the island cash a bill.

  ‘I have no idea what this is about,’ he said. He threw himself into a chair in the English langue. ‘I’d go to the Grand Master if I thought he could alter the situation. Something has happened somewhere, and I do not know what it is. And no one will tell me. Has our bank suspended payment? Impossible. My brothers have cut me out of the will? Absurd, but even if true, I have my own funds, my own estates.’ He put a hand over his face, a thing I had never seen him do before.

  That was the first bad sign.

  The second appeared on our second night, when Emile was hosted by the English knights. It was a very kind gesture; the Grand Master had let it be known that my nuptials had his blessing, and that was no small thing, as you will hear.

  We were sitting in our inn, and the great hall of the inn was full of men and a few women; servants bustled with food.

  I was just hearing that Sir Robert Hales – Fra Robert, that is – was going home to England. He was to take the news of the victory and raise more money. He would be collecting Lord Grey at Venice. I also heard that Fra Peter Mortimer, my own knight, was either in Famagusta or had already sailed for Venice.

  ‘Ah, Venice,’ I said, or something like, because if I had not been born an Englishman, I’d have wanted to be a Venetian.

  ‘Do you know Tamworth or Lord Hereford, Sir William?’ he asked.

  I did not. ‘I’m sorry, My Lord,’ I said. ‘Lord Hereford is but a name to me.’

  Hales nodded. He had a long beard, split in the middle and combed to two spikes; it made him look a little like the Devil. ‘I hear they will be in Venice,’ he said, ‘with a party of Englishmen. Fra Peter and I are to meet them and escort them to Milan.’ He showed me a scroll with the royal seal of England.

  I probably shrugged.

  ‘Read it,’ he said.

  So I did.

  Your name, Master Chaucer, jumped to my eye. So did the style of Prince Lionel, and the purpose – a marriage. And the mention of John Hawkwood. The letter was, in fact, far too candid. It laid out a policy and requested, or rather, demanded, Fra Robert’s support for the mission, as he was returning to England as an officer of the crown, et cetera.

  ‘I seem to remember that you know Sir John Hawkwood,’ he said.

  I handed him back the scroll. ‘I do,’ I admitted.

  Hales shook his head. ‘I wish you were at leisure,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘An Englishman who knows Hawkwood could be a good friend in this game. However, we need you in Greece, and there’s another matter. So I’ll ask you to write a letter to your friend Hawkwood, if you will,’

  Emile could not quite hear us, and she handed me a cup of wine and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And Fra Peter knows Hawkwood well and will be welcome in his camp.’

  Hales smiled. ‘That’s good news,’ he said.

  ‘What is the other matter, Fra Robert?’ I asked.

  He looked at Emile. ‘Your sovereign lord, Count Amadeus, is in Venice right now,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘That is not unexpected. He is only a year late.’

  Hales played with his beard. ‘I think you both need to know that the Count de Turenne left Famagusta twenty days ago. His ship touched here, and he was en route to Venice.’ He leaned over. ‘My lady, his expressed purpose is to see the Green Count and deprive you of your lands.’ He looked at me. ‘He has heard of your marriage – a pity. If Lord Grey had been a few days slower, Turenne would have left Famagusta none the wiser, although tongues were wagging.’ He leaned back and looked at us both.

  I said nothing.

  Emile’s voice was harsh with strain. ‘What does this mean, Sir Robert?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘The Count de Turenne is going to allege to the Count of Savoy that you were unfaithful to your husband; that your children are bastards; that you paid this rascal to kill your husband, and he did so; he can produce witnesses to all these things. How he found these witnesses in Famagusta beggars the imagination, but he has an affidavit from the King of Cyprus, although our notary …’ He fingered his beard and looked away. ‘… thinks it a forgery.’

  ‘A forgery?’ I said.

  Hales shrugged. ‘Listen, my lady. It is not that we in the Order are so very good, but only that you, my lady, are a pilgrim under our prote
ction, and you, Sir William, whatever your sins, are an excellent soldier and one of our very sons.’

  We’d been joined by the turcopolier, Fra William de Midelton, another Englishman; in fact, the head of the English langue and commander of the Order’s mercenaries.

  ‘Telling the happy couple all of the good news?’ he muttered. He smiled at me. ‘God will provide, my son,’ he said.

  Fra Robert nodded. ‘So he will. Twenty knights of the Order saw that you did not kill the Comte d’Herblay, my son. On the other hand, a dozen of them saw that Nerio did.’ He spread his hands and nodded at Nerio. ‘And all of them saw what d’Herblay had become, and what he was doing. We will back you. But you two are in for an uncomfortable time anywhere that Turenne has friends.’ He shook his head. ‘And all of this becomes Church politics. The Order wants the Green Count to come here – to help us solidify our gains, to save Cilicia, mayhap even to take Jerusalem. The Comte de Turenne, Archbishop Robert of Geneva, and a dozen more I can name have other plans. And the Pope is appointing a new legate. I don’t even know who it will be.’

  Emile had played the game of courts her whole life. ‘So my marriage and my possession of my lands will be a hostage to the Crusade?’ she asked.

  Fra Robert looked at his hands and didn’t meet her eye. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  That threw rather a pall over the evening, and it was worse when I saw that my lady was keeping back tears of anger only with her will; all I could do was touch her hand and wish her good even. She rose, gave me a troubled smile, and pleaded her need to see her children, which was perfectly true; they had both grown amazingly in four short weeks, and Emile could not stop embracing them.

  But she was angry.

  Sister Marie knew by then, the whole mess, and she went and walked behind my lady and gave me a nod and what might have been a wink.

  Fra Robert went on as soon as she was gone. ‘Listen, Sir William – and you, Nerio, and you, Ser Fiore, and you, Sir Miles. The Order is spread very thin. Most of our knights have already gone home to their commanderies in France or Germany or England or Italy – it would require another passim generale to get them back to the Holy Land. Of the men who are here, more than half are on Cyprus, preparing to support the King. Our little fleet is at sea.’