I had no time to get to know them, so I left them with Nerio, because I was just clasping hands with the leader of the English I’d just signed, Diccon Crewel, a small man and too gentle to not be very dangerous, and I was laughing because Gospel Mark, an archer I’d known at Poitiers, was right there, and he knew Ned Cooper and Ewan too. And over his shoulder I saw Nerio, and with him, a familiar face.
Carlo Zeno.
I’d last seen him in the fighting at Alexandria. He was still the same, handsome, with a scar on his face and an almost perpetual sneer, dark-haired and dark-bearded. We hadn’t started as friends, but we’d done well enough in the end.
‘Messire Zeno has a ship,’ Nerio said. ‘I believe he’s the man to take you.’
Zeno has since told me that the voyage from Jonc to Gallipoli was one of the least pleasant experiences of his life. It’s probably a wonder we remained friends.
And the reason was Richard Musard. Or, to be precise, me and Richard.
For a day, it was smooth sailing, both really and metaphorically, and Richard and I kept our distance, but off the Hand, south of Mistra’s vale, we hit bad weather. We were driven from the deck of Zeno’s little galliot and into the tiny stern cabin, and there we were, two men who had once been friends, with Zeno, literally, between us.
Many galleys do not have a full stern cabin, but Zeno was both wealthy and militarily active and he’d had his purpose-built for long voyages. He had a swinging bed that hung by chains at night and was roped up to the slanted ceiling by day, and two great stern windows, the first I ever saw, with a bench that ran along the windows as if they were loggia in some great Ca’ of Venice, and the bench had a red velvet cushion and was very comfortable. There was a table that almost filled the little room – although it, too, folded away – and five determined people could sit around it, but we were just three. John preferred to be out in the rain rather than listen; Richard’s squire was a very young Cornishman named Robin, and he stayed out as well.
We sat and stared at each other for half a glass.
I found that I hated him. I had let it go; it all seemed long ago. But when the smug bastard was one seat away from me, so close I could reach out and choke him, all I could think of was that this particular blackheart had betrayed me to be tortured and hanged by the Bourc Camus, or at the very least to be taken as a criminal by Jean le Maigre.
And of course, if you recall, he thought I was the engine of depriving him of his lady love.
So we sat and glared.
Zeno drank, and tried to make various forms of small talk; he discussed fights he had seen, he asked me to tell him about Jerusalem, he told entertaining tales of serving various Turkish emirs as a mercenary. He had known old Orhan, the father of the current Ottamanid sultan, Murad. And he spoke Turkish.
And none of that moved either of us as we sat in the cabin and hated each other.
It only took a couple of hours of rain, and Zeno had had enough. He rose to his feet, fought past me for the door, and paused there, the brass handle in his hand. ‘I’ll go and make sure the deck is still there,’ he said. ‘If one of you kills the other, just fling the body out the windows and clean up, eh?’
He slammed the door.
I looked at Richard. ‘So,’ I said, ‘why did you beg the count for my life?’
He looked away. ‘Because it isn’t fair. I know you didn’t do any of those things. So does he. Turenne is a fool, and he knows it, and he would only blacken his repute by killing you.’
‘Not because you’ve already tried to have me killed once, and that didn’t work out?’ I asked.
‘Why don’t you just fuck yourself?’ he said.
‘I couldn’t do it as thoroughly as you did it to me, brother,’ I said. ‘Taken by the Bourc Camus. You fucking set me up to die at the hands of the Bourc Camus.’
‘No, I did not,’ Richard said calmly. And then, much more quietly, ‘I just let it happen.’
‘You just let it happen?’ I asked.
‘Like you just happened to start fucking my woman?’ he asked. ‘While we’re spewing obscenities like brigands, let’s get that right.’
‘Never touched her,’ I said.
‘Bullshit,’ Richard said. ‘I saw you in her tent, and she told me herself.’
He crossed his arms.
Well, here’s the thorn amidst the roses. I’ve never known Janet to lie, but she wasn’t there right then and I really hadn’t ever put a finger on her. I hadn’t even particularly fancied her, although she was both beautiful, in a French way, and a fine swordsman. Swordswoman. Horsewoman. Everything I knew about hawking, which, as I have said, is little enough, and chess and table manners I learned from her.
I shrugged. ‘Never touched her, before or since,’ I said.
Richard glared.
‘And while we’re on that, I doubt she was ever “your woman”.’ I don’t know what imp drove me to say it … Probably because I was Janet’s friend. I knew what she thought of being owned.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ he asked, and his hand went to his dagger. ‘She was mine.’
‘I think she was her own,’ I said.
‘Her own what?’ Richard asked.
‘Her own woman. Listen, Richard. Listen to me. When she came to us in sixty-two— ’
‘When you stole her from me,’ Richard said. ‘Christ, why am I sitting here listening to you spew lies? You know what, William? I volunteered for this stupid mission because I thought I could redeem you. Once upon a time you believed in chivalry, in knighthood. You were better than just a routier. I saw it. I thought you could be … saved.’
I had a moment of nearly white-hot anger. I was unused to being thought a bad knight. The pain was particularly sharp from Richard. He had his hand on his dagger, and I had mine on my rondel – not my baselard. For whatever reason, I had de Charny’s dagger on my hip, and I could feel the steel cap under my thumb.
I had the oddest sensation, as if the world was not all I thought it to be. I saw de Charny’s corpse at Poitiers. I heard his voice say, Those who do most are worth most.
I heard it so clearly that he might have been at the table, sitting between us.
I let go of my dagger.
I took a breath.
And another.
And another.
‘Richard,’ I said slowly. ‘I am a knight-donat of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem. I have just been to Jerusalem, Richard. I served at Alexandria at my own expense.’ I took another breath. ‘When I left Italy, Janet was serving in armour in John Hawkwood’s company of lances – the White Company or whatever they were calling themselves. I assume she still is. Somewhere in Venice I have a letter from her in which she tells my wife – the woman who is now my wife – that she was never my leman.’ I shrugged. ‘I am not, perhaps, the mirror of chivalry, but I do as much as I can, every day, to be a good knight. I did not take Janet from you.’
‘Then why would she leave me?’ Richard asked.
Now, friends … What do you tell a friend, when you know the truth will cut like a heavy sword? What do you tell a man you both love and hate?
‘Because she didn’t want to live as your wife,’ I said. ‘And you know that, Richard. She told you over and over.’
He turned his face away, set hard. ‘She never meant that. That’s crap.’
‘No, Richard. It’s because—’
‘She was mine. I saved her, and she was mine.’ Richard’s voice all but hissed.
‘You cannot own a person,’ I said. I thought I was being reasonable.
‘You can own a person!’ he shouted. ‘I was fucking owned. I was a slave! Is that it? Because I’m black, swarthy, whatever you want to call it? Is that what it is? Because I was a slave?’
Truly, I hadn’t ever thought of Richard’s slavery before. I mean, I had. But let�
��s be frank, back when he talked about his life, we were running a brothel and trying to be knights, which is a difficult enough balancing act without over-thinking your friend’s birth and upbringing.
I was honest enough, in the moment, to shrug and say no more, and Richard slid out of the bench and left the cabin, slamming the door.
That was round one.
We had our second joust later in the day. We were served dinner in the cabin, of course. Zeno crammed all four of his gentleman marines around our table, and he was capitano – very much so. He sat at the head of the little table and talked. I think he talked relentlessly to prevent another outburst; he described how he had come into possession of the galliot, and how he’d ordered her rebuilt, and the rise in his fortunes since the taking of Alexandria.
Richard fussed with his food. We had good food – chickpea soup full of spices, and cold chicken, and barley rolls that were apparently re-warmed, but tasted fresh baked.
Zeno nodded to me. ‘I have a wonderful man. I bought him in a Genoese slave market. He can cook anything, anywhere.’
‘I didn’t think Venice allowed slavery,’ I said.
Zeno shrugged and made a face. ‘Oh, I’m sure he’s not a slave aboard this ship. But really – are any of us free? I serve Venice; he serves me.’
I had some doubts. But like the Genoese, Carne, who might have been Zeno’s brother, Zeno did not feel himself constrained by mere ethics or notions of morality. I have noticed this a good deal among captains of ships, and kings and princes; when men reach the epitome of power, they are free to ignore the strictures of their homes, and the laws.
Knighthood, to me, is nothing more or less than this – the training to avoid this pitfall. To remain beholden, if you will – to a lady, to the Church, to your lord – despite the power of your right hand and the protection of your armour.
Nor do I mean that Zeno was a bad man. I liked him. But at sea he was a tyrant, and his will was the will of all men on his vessel. Perhaps I am naturally servile, although I doubt it, but I had no trouble obeying his strictures. I could understand that he wanted no more friction; harsh words carry on shipboard, and anger breeds anger, as any soldier knows.
But Richard began to speak of Count Amadeus in the terms most used to describe God, and he very quickly got under my skin, as he no doubt meant. He spoke of Amadeus’s victories over the ‘routiers’ – by which he meant my friends; he spoke of the infinite superiority of the Green Count’s army to that hired by the Church; and he openly said that Europe was cleaner for the many thousand routiers taken out of it by the ‘crusade’. It was only then that I learned how many of the ‘crusaders’ died of Plague then raging in Venice.
And I confess that he said aloud many things I’d thought, or even said, or heard said by cynical souls like Nerio. But it is like the old German saying; I can speak ill of my sister, but you cannot. In his mouth, it was the worst hypocrisy, and I found it difficult to listen to him when we had, together, and by force of arms, run a stable of French girls from an inn whose owner we terrified.
Twice, we did that.
Damn me, friends. I’m far from proud of being a whoremaster. But I did it, and it helps me appreciate what drives other men. Bad places make bad men.
So I sat and fretted. But I kept my temper; if you are paying attention, you know that I was better and better at this, and as I hadn’t killed Scrope, I was unlikely to fly out at Musard. I kept my peace, pasted a smile on my face, and this drove Richard to drive the spurs in more recklessly.
The Venetian marines were all gentlemen; they tried to make small talk in Italian, and when Richard drove on in his Savoyard-Anglic French, they gave up, poured white wine from a skin, and chattered in Veneziano, a language I could not really understand. I was pretty sure that they were talking about us.
Zeno had also had enough, and after dinner he wiped his eating knife with a cloth and looked at me.
‘What is your plan for scouting the town?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘First I think we want to know whether the Turks have actually attempted to close the Dardanelles,’ I said.
Zeno nodded, wiping his moustache. ‘My thought exactly. I’ll pick up a fishing boat off Tenedos – that’s the fastest way to get news.’
Tenedos, the jewel of the Straits, and a perpetual source of contention between the Genoese, the Venetians and the Byzantines.
‘Why do you address him?’ Richard asked. ‘I am the leader of this expedition.’
Zeno raised an eyebrow. ‘I know him,’ he said. ‘I know he’s done this sort of thing before. I do not have the honour of knowing you particularly, sir.’ Zeno bowed.
‘I will tell you my will in this,’ Richard began.
Zeno put his eating knife down and shook his head. ‘This is my ship, and I’ll decide what happens to her and aboard her. I asked the opinion of a comrade, Sir Richard. I do not take orders, except from the doge and the thirty.’
Richard sat up. ‘Then you can take us back to the count and see how you are rewarded,’ he said.
He got up and left the table without the capitano’s permission. Zeno frowned.
I put a hand on his sleeve. ‘I’ll talk to him. We were friends once.’
‘And then what?’ Zeno said.
‘He thinks I stole his wife,’ I said.
Zeno laughed, a short, almost demonic bark. ‘And did you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Too bad,’ Zeno said. ‘If you had …’ He shrugged. ‘Men do these things. You could pretend to be contrite and he could pretend to believe you.’
I fingered my beard. ‘But I didn’t,’ I said.
Zeno looked at the four marines chattering in Veneziano. ‘That’s bad, because that means she left him for another reason. I’m guessing she left him because he was an arse.’
I shrugged. ‘A complicated woman,’ I said.
‘He who says woman says all,’ Zeno said.
I shook my head. I disliked the tendency of men to dismiss women as alien and incomprehensible. Men seem to learn to understand horses – horses are far more alien. And as Emile once said to me, that’s because men spend more time and effort on horses.
But here, again, I’m cutting away from the pell.
‘I’ll speak to him,’ I said again.
Zeno waved. ‘Be my guest. But I’m going to Tenedos – we’ll have a look at Gallipoli, will he, nill he. He seems to think that the sun shines out of this count’s arsehole – for my money, he’s another Frank with a better retinue.’
I went on deck. John was cleaning my armour; I hunkered down with him while he did my arms, and I drew the emperor’s sword and looked it over. The sea was never a friend to steel, and there it was; a slight tug in drawing, and a little haze of rust at the top of the blade. I went to work on it, forgetting Richard for a few moments in the work, and then I saw him in the bow. I walked out along the catwalk amidships and then up onto the forward fighting platform, which even a little ship like this had to have.
He turned. ‘I knew it was a mistake sailing with one of your many friends,’ he said.
I considered a number of replies and let them all go. ‘Richard,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘I know. I’m being difficult.’ He looked at me. ‘You know that they call me “the Moor” behind my back?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand their Veneziano.’
‘Nor I, but I know the word for Moor,’ he said. ‘Among the Savoyards, I am a famous knight. I have my own retinue. I wear the collar of an Order. On this deck, I am a Moor.’
I leaned on the rail beside him. Sometimes, when you talk to a man, or a woman, for that matter, eye contact is the wrong approach; too intimate. Too close. Side by side, looking at the sea …
‘And I am here,’ I said softly. ‘Reminding you that once we were not knights.
We were hired muscle at best.’
‘Yes,’ he said, very softly.
‘It is too close, is it not?’ I said.
The bow cut the water. If he said anything, I didn’t hear it. I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell him that he made me into a monster in his mind, and that monster hurt me, because I had been that man …
I didn’t. I talk too much at the best of times, but sometimes, I can hold my tongue. I wanted him to speak.
But he said nothing. So I changed tack.
‘Zeno was sent by their admirale, Contarini, because of Tenedos,’ I said. ‘That is, he was sent to help us, but also to test the waters, so to speak, rather than allow the count to choose one of the Genoese captains, who would have been unacceptable operating in these waters. To Venice.’
‘Fucking Venetians,’ Musard said. ‘They have no graces, no aristocrats, no natural leaders. They live for money and petty politics – so fucking petty compared to the Genoese.’
‘The slavers?’ I spat.
It’s odd how, when you try to hold your temper, letting go is so sudden and so subtle. You don’t even notice, and it is not on the subject you expected. ‘You started your life as a slave and you think the Genoese are superior to the Venetians?’
‘Now you tax me with being a slave?’ he snarled, stepping away from the rail.
‘No!’ I said. ‘Use your fool head, Dick! I’m telling you that—’
He swung a fist at me, and I blocked it, as Fiore taught me, but Richard was far too fast for me to catch his wrist.
I backed a step, and Richard spat, ‘Is that what you and Janet talked about?’
I shook my head. Useless, at twilight. ‘We never discussed you, Richard, damn it—’
‘You lie,’ he said. ‘I can see it in your whole body.’
The Green Count Page 32