The Green Count

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Now, par dieu!’ he exclaimed.

  He looked at me. ‘This is true?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’ I was still kneeling. It was my year to kneel.

  ‘How old is this?’ he asked.

  ‘My Lord, I sailed on the fifteenth of July from Mytilene.’ He was reading. I chose not to speak more.

  He allowed the parchment to snap closed, and tapped his teeth with it. ‘Do you bear any verbal message, Sir William?’ he asked.

  ‘My Lord, I was sent to you by my Order, the Knights of the Hospital, with a very different message, begging you and your force to attend the Grand Master in the harbour of Rhodes and join King Peter of Cyprus in his empris.’ I took a breath.

  He sat up. ‘We hear that Alexandria is abandoned, and that King Peter is a broken reed,’ he said.

  It was like walking on quicksand; I had no idea what he had heard, and from what source. Fra Peter? Turenne? Some routier?

  ‘My Lord, the Order is still strong and acting for the Faith in the East, and as for King Peter, I saw him two months ago in Famagusta and he was not a broken reed.’ I could not say more, and I could sense the hostility around me. Indeed, it occurred to me then and now that I was happier eating sherbet with a Turkish emir than meeting the great Green Count.

  He nodded. ‘I see we have much to discuss. But these matters are for later – this letter has the precedence.’ He tapped his teeth again. ‘I assume you really are Nerio Acciaioli?’ he asked.

  Nerio raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose I could be mistaken,’ he said. ‘But it seems unlikely.’

  Amadeus of Savoy let out what can only be described as a heartfelt sigh. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That certainly simplifies matters.’ He looked back at me. ‘Do you know the contents of this letter?’ he asked me.

  ‘We both know,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Sir Richard. Arrange an immediate meeting with the Archbishop of Patras – I will even go as far as to meet him in his camp, if he will not come here. Tell my niece, too, that I have arrived at a verdict, and not, I fear, one in her favour.’

  Something passed between him and Nerio. Some amusement, some disappointment. No words.

  Nerio had read the whole situation in a glance. He was a better politician than I. He understood that his father had left him a good portion of the old Duchy of Achaea in his will, and that someone of the Savoyards – and I won’t push you too hard to guess who it was – had spread the word of his death so that Amadeus could claim the lands for his sister’s niece, Marie de Bourbon.

  I confess, it was a brilliant gambit. If the emperor had not been taken; if we had not been sent as messengers …

  But we were.

  I admired the way the Count of Savoy accepted the change of fortune. He nodded, looking at Nerio, and as I say, something passed between them.

  ‘You will support us in our attempt to rescue the emperor,’ he said to Nerio.

  Nerio smiled. ‘Of course, My Lord,’ he said, using the count’s style for the first time.

  He looked back at me. ‘You will attend us ashore, Sir William,’ he said.

  I had time to thank God that Robert of Geneva was not there, and that Nerio was.

  We landed on a beautiful beach that seemed to extend to the horizon to the south, and to the north wound around into an estuary, or so it appeared. Jonc was a castle perched on a rock, like every castle in the Inner Sea. It was held by a Frenchman, Guillaume de Talay, for Marie de Bourbon. Nerio’s cousin was laying siege to it, at least in part because it was part of Niccolò Acciaioli’s patrimony. In fact, I had begun to suspect it now belonged to Nerio. Remember, we didn’t know; the wheels were turning inside other wheels.

  We landed with wet feet because the wind was rising, and it was only as I leaped from the bow of a longboat onto the beach, trying to preserve my fighting shoes from salt, that I saw our Genoese galliot already well out to sea, and running south, the bastard.

  Nerio narrowed his eyes.

  ‘We’ve been in worse spots,’ he said. Which, from him, indicated we were in a very tight spot indeed.

  However, we walked up the beach to where a large company was drawn up – routiers and mercenaries – and the Count of Savoy’s lips curled back from his teeth in a sneer.

  ‘Your cousins, Sir William,’ he said, the first indication he gave that he remembered me, or that he disliked me.

  There is no good answer to make to one of the greatest princes in the Christian world and his dislike of you.

  And they really did look like the worst of our breed – rusty haubergeons, old brigantines of heavy, square plates, aventails of cloth, painted helmets. Their discipline was fair; they didn’t talk, and the men-at-arms stood with their spears in their hands upright, and formed a sort of road for the count. An officer with a baton of dirty white greeted the count and bowed.

  The count walked right past him towards the red pavilion in the distance, up on the grass above the beach.

  He rose to the insult, angrily. ‘You have brought more than the agreed number of men, My Lord,’ he said.

  Amadeus turned his green eyes on the man. ‘Spare me your pettifogging,’ he said. ‘I mean no harm to your master and in fact, only good. Do not seek to delay me, or it will be the worse for you.’

  The life of the routier does not, in fact, prepare you to deal with the power of a prince.

  On the other hand, I was there at Brignais when we smashed the Savoyards and the King of France’s marshal, too. And we were routiers. I had the oddest feeling that I was more one of these men in their rusting maille than I was a follower of the count’s. His arrogance made the worst men in my Order seem … merely pleasantly arrogant, like Fiore or Nerio.

  He walked up the beach. At the edge of the sheep-cropped grass, his servant opened a folding stool and he sat, two men took off his shoes, dumped the sand, and then laced the shoes back on. It was a performance, if you like.

  Then we walked to the great red pavilion.

  The Archbishop of Patras was a handsome man, and his Acciaioli blood was obvious; he and Nerio shared a nose and forehead. He was dressed for war, in an arming coat, and he had a small Turkish mace in his hand. He was surrounded by courtiers and officers of his household, but he came and bowed to the Green Count as was proper, and when he saw Nerio, he started in astonishment, pressed past the count and took his cousin’s hands.

  ‘I thought you were dead!’ he said, and threw his arms around Nerio.

  Nerio smiled at me over his cousin’s shoulder.

  ‘Sic transit gloria mundi,’ sighed the count. ‘This is your missing cousin?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ the archbishop said.

  Amadeus knelt and kissed his episcopal ring, as did Richard Musard and I and even Nerio.

  In the next hour, the Green Count played the great man to perfection. He had an army at his back, and more, as I heard, on the way; the Savoyards expected a Genoese fleet any day. The archbishop was rich, and had a good company of routiers, but they were not going to be a match for four thousand professional men-at-arms. I had only been with the count a few hours and I had already had time to marvel at the quality of his army: he had Savoyard knights, hundreds of them; he had Picard and English and Scots archers; engineers, siege machines, horse transports, food and water. His army was superb, and a shockingly better force than that which the legate had led to Alexandria.

  I mention this because he could have had any peace he wanted, but he was scrupulously fair. He dictated the terms, but they were very favourable to the archbishop, and thus to Nerio. I know the count spoke briefly to Nerio on the ship, but Nerio said the conversation was meaningless – a mere exchange of pleasantries – except, I discovered later, that the count asked, quite baldly, for a loan from the Acciaioli bank, and Nerio agreed to see to it that such a loan was made, to the sum of ten thousand ducats –
a staggering sum.

  Nerio had in his purse about eighty ducats, if that. He was not used to counting his coppers or his gold florins either. But he guaranteed a very powerful man a huge loan.

  I’m glad I didn’t know.

  So the count sat in the archbishop’s tent and made a treaty between his wife’s cousin and Nerio’s cousin. Marie de Bourbon was forced to renounce all her claims to Corinth and all of the lands held by the Acciaioli throughout the Morea, and in exchange, the archbishop released her steward from captivity and received back his own bailli, who was handed over that very afternoon.

  He did it without arrogance; I mean, beyond the incredible arrogance of abrogating to himself the right to force a treaty on his wife’s cousin and an archbishop. And I confess that the treaty he made was fair enough.

  We were given a place to sleep in another galley, and we ate a dinner with a dozen English men-at-arms in Savoyard service that was pleasant enough. I found the food without taste, because I was still afraid.

  As we lay waiting for sleep, Nerio spoke aloud my thought.

  ‘Why did Turenne tell them we were dead?’ he asked.

  I had no idea. ‘Is it possible they thought we were dead?’ I asked.

  I fell asleep wondering.

  Morning and old bread and watered wine, and a summons to attend the count – just for me.

  Well. It had to come. As I dressed, I saw that the Genoese had come, and their dozen galleys were anchored out by the island where the Spartans had lost to the Athenians. It occurred to me in my trouble of spirit that had we the army of King Peter and all the Order’s galleys, we’d have been a far, far better Crusade than the one that went against Alexandria.

  Nerio was up with me. ‘You want me to come?’ he said. ‘He can’t kill you with me there. He needs me.’

  I shook my head. ‘I think …’ I said. ‘I think I have to do this alone, win or lose.’

  Nerio spat over the side. ‘So do I,’ he admitted. ‘But if he kills you, by God, I’ll break him.’

  That made me smile; my friend Nerio versus a prince of the West. ‘Remind me never to make you angry,’ I said.

  And then I put on my dagger and went with the squire who had come to fetch me.

  When I went aboard his great galley, he was alone under the green awning with Richard Musard.

  ‘Sir William Gold,’ he said.

  ‘My Lord,’ I said with my best bow, a full reverencia on one knee.

  ‘You have pretty manners for a routier. Richard tells me that you have been at my court in Geneva.’ He didn’t smile.

  ‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said. I was stiff, unshaven, and feeling ill-used.

  ‘You are married to my cousin Emile,’ he said. His green eyes were on me. ‘She holds several important fiefs in my county, Sir William, and she may not wed without my permission.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Yet you dared to wed her. And then you dare to come into my presence, as if your red coat will protect you.’

  I wasn’t going to shrug. ‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said.

  ‘Yes My Lord, what?’ he shot back. ‘Do you know the charges against you?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said. ‘The Grand Master of my Order informed me.’

  That took him aback.

  ‘I assume, My Lord is referring to the charges levelled by the Count of Turenne,’ I said. I’m sure my voice wavered; I’m a great deal better at fighting with swords than words.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, looking at Richard. ‘You know the charges, and you came anyway.’

  ‘There was no one else to send,’ I said. ‘Rhodes is virtually empty of knights, My Lord.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you or your Grand Master that I might just find you guilty of treason, lèse-majesté, a dozen other crimes, and string you up by the neck at the end of my main yard?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure it did occur,’ I said. ‘Your Grace must know that I was aware of it. My wife told me as much.’

  He was served wine. I was there on one knee, and Richard would not meet my eye, and I thought, Dearest Jesu, if this is it, let me be debonair and a good knight.

  ‘And why should I not string you up?’ he asked. He didn’t smile.

  ‘I might say that as I am a belted knight, I would at least like to have my head cut off with a sword,’ I said.

  Not a glimmer of a smile.

  ‘But rather like the report of Nerio Acciaioli’s death, My Lord, the whole thing is a tissue of lies, excepting only that I had no idea that my lady wife was such a powerful vassal that her marriage was entailed.’ I looked him in the face. Met his odd green eyes.

  ‘You did not kill the Comte d’Herblay?’ he asked.

  ‘No, My Lord. And a dozen knights of the Order were present.’ I was breathing better by then. Truly, it is like fighting. Once you are in it, most of the fear falls away.

  The Count looked at Musard. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Name one.’

  I named five.

  We looked at each other.

  ‘Why would the Count of Turenne fabricate such a ridiculous charge if it was so easily disproved?’ he asked.

  The phrase Because he’s a lying, cowardly sack of shit came to my head, and I had to work not to say it. ‘I have no idea what goes on inside the count’s head,’ I said.

  ‘Interesting,’ the Green Count said. ‘You dare to sneer at the Count of Turenne. You, a former routier, a killer, sneer at my cousin, whose birth is so far above yours as to merit your instant death on his word alone.’

  Sometimes, it really is better to be hanged for a lion. If he was going to hang me, I was damned if I was going to be nice.

  ‘My sneer is for his cowardice,’ I said, and I added sneer to sneer. ‘He was among the first to demand we retreat from Alexandria. Indeed, he never wanted to land in the first place. I know nothing of his birth, My Lord. I speak as the merest fighting man, as you say.’ I continued to kneel, but my back was straight. ‘D’Herblay was roaming the streets killing women and children.’

  Count Amadeus shook his head gently. ‘What a spotless Christian knight you sound,’ he said. ‘Par dieu, Richard, is this Lancelot or Percival before me? I can scarcely tell.’ He looked at me. ‘You are a bold rogue, William Gold. This man, who has been my squire and is now my best knight – he begged me for your life this morning on bended knee.’

  I doubt I’ve ever been so shocked in all my life.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, observing my reaction. ‘Richard has begged your life and I give it you. I would be a fool to hang you and bear the wrath of your Order. And my cousin Turenne is a fool, I’ll give you that.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Monsieur Musard, take Sir William with you, if he is agreeable. If he dies, so much the better.’

  He looked at me. ‘The Turks have closed the Dardanelles, or so the Genoese just arrived have told me. You and Richard will investigate this, and then fetch your Prince of Lesvos to the new fleet rendezvous at Negroponte,’ he said. He smiled, or rather, the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘If you are not a false traitor, Sir William, then in fact you owe me a dozen knights’ service for sixty days for your wife’s lands. Either way, frankly, I have the power of high justice, middle justice and low justice over you, and I command you to attend Sir Richard Musard to Gallipoli. Serve, or be declared miscreant.’

  ‘I will go gladly,’ I said. I doubt I sounded glad.

  ‘Die in service, then, or return with a better repute,’ he said. ‘I will be just as happy, either way.’ He looked at me. A servant handed him a document, and he kept me waiting, on my knee, while he read it and signed it. ‘Where is my cousin Emile?’ he asked.

  ‘At the court of the Prince of Lesvos,’ I said.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. He waved his hand.

  I was dismissed.

  Richard walked down the deck with me.

  ‘W
e are not friends,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t see you killed.’ He shrugged. ‘And Turenne is an arse. Even the count knows it. Your knight, Fra Peter, spoke to the count at Corfu.’

  I was still having a little trouble breathing.

  ‘And we are going to Gallipoli together?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘It’s a long swim,’ I said. ‘Do you have a boat?’

  Richard looked at me. ‘You haven’t changed much,’ he said. ‘This is an insane mission, William.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I said. ‘Mayhap not a picnic. But not insane.’

  ‘Under the walls of an infidel city?’ he asked.

  ‘I walked around Alexandria five days before the army landed,’ I said. ‘And my man speaks Turkish.’

  ‘Damn,’ Richard said with his old smile. ‘Damn.’

  ‘We need a boat,’ I said.

  Richard nodded. ‘No problem there.’

  Nerio didn’t exactly decline to come. But he wanted to establish himself, if even a little, in his patrimony. And he had guaranteed the count a loan – a loan which may or may not have played a major role in the preservation of my skin.

  I left him.

  We lost the whole day looking for a boat. It was evening; Richard was trying to convince any of the Venetian captains to run us to Negroponte, at least, and I was hiring.

  I know that sounds odd, but remember I had a contract with the Prince of Lesvos. Western men-at-arms are not so common in the East, in Outremer. And the Archbishop of Patras no longer needed his army.

  It seemed too good to pass up, even though I had no idea how to transport them to Lesvos, but Nerio said he’d see to it, and so I hired a dozen men-at-arms and as many armed squires. They were routiers, but so was l’Angars and so was Pierre Lapot. They had no horses; I was willing to bet I could get them horses.

  It was all risk, like business. On the other hand, I got to pick and choose, and I did, taking only the best men with the best kit: some Scots or Irish, all Islesmen led by Hector Lachlan, a very big man indeed in an old-fashioned long haubergeon; a little famiglia of five Italians from Vicenza, all exiles, all named Cavalli, led by Maurizio di Cavalli, a good knight and a fine lance; and some Englishmen, led by Diccon Crewel. I admit that I prefer Englishmen. So even if their harness wasn’t as good, I took them. Oh, and I mustn’t forget my Welsh – three archers, all named David, and a man-at-arms with hair as red as my own, William Chetwyn, known to his mates as Red Bill.