The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  “Do you plan to stand over us all night?” sneered Taloc, rubbing his wrists.

  “Yes, if necessary,” Raoul said. “Now shut up!”

  “Oh, Raoul, there you are.” Pierre ran over to him and thumped him playfully on the back. “There’s decent wine in de Flagy’s tent and some of the city girls are going to come down later and dance.” By his grin he clearly expected something else as well.

  “I’ll have to stay with these two.”

  “No, look, I’ve taken care of that. These lads -” he indicated to three burly men who greeted Raoul cheerfully, “are friends of mine from Azay. I didn’t even know they were here. In return for a little...refreshment...they’ve volunteered to guard them for you.”

  “Is that right?” Raoul asked them.

  “Yeah – no trouble. I owe Pierre a favour,” said the first man warmly. “Claude Poussin’s the name.”

  “I’m Raoul de Metz.”

  The prospect of being relieved of his loathsome burden was certainly appealing. He sheathed his sword and clasped the man’s outstretched hand. He was a blond giant with ruddy cheeks and a huge grin.

  “You go and enjoy yourself,” he said. “Any friend of Pierre’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Don’t give these two a thought,” said one of the others. “We’ll sort then out.” He aimed a kick at Mathieu Le Gros whose smug look vanished. “Georges Gautier at your service.”

  “God!” Claude peered at Raoul’s face. “That doesn’t look too good. What’d you do to it?”

  “Bilcot made his mark on it!” murmured Taloc in Breton.

  “I warned you!” Raoul snarled taking a step towards him.

  “Leave it, Raoul. Don’t let him rile you!” Pierre put a restraining hand on his arm. “It’s a dagger wound,” he told his friend, “the handiwork of their dead companion. It’s not healing right.”

  “I can see that. Looks painful.”

  “No more than the bastard deserves,” Le Gros hissed.

  Georges gave him another kick.

  “I don’t know what you said, you miserable cur, but it didn’t sound like a compliment.”

  He winked at Raoul.

  “Foreign are they?” The third of Pierre’s friends was regarding the two seated men in surprise. “Are they Turks?”

  “No, but I wish they were.” Raoul gave a bitter laugh. “I could get rid of them then!” He made a throat-slitting gesture.

  “You leave ‘em to us; we’ll take care of ‘em. The name’s Antoine Sibers, by the way.” He too clasped Raoul’s hand.

  “Don’t trust them and don’t take your eyes of them!” Raoul warned them.

  “Yeah, yeah. They’ll be no trouble!”

  “Come on, Raoul, let’s get a drink.”

  “Lead the way, then. And thanks.”

  He followed his friend towards the knights’ tents.

  “Will they be all right, do you think? I mean, your friends will watch them, won’t they?”

  “Of course they will. Now, forget about the filthy scum, Raoul, and let me tell you about the time when Baron Roland was after Claude’s blood – he’s the big fair lad.”

  Raoul glanced back. The prisoners didn’t look like running away. They were sitting on the ground some distance from their new guards and the newcomers were passing a bottle between them. Taloc and Le Gros had no grudge against these men from Azay and they, Pierre’s friends, looked tough enough. Pierre was right. It was time to forget about them and have a drink and if a girl could be found who was blind or desperate enough, even a woman.

  As it turned out, the women were very unappealing. ‘Girls’ had been a term rather too loosely applied to the aging whores who attempted to rouse the soldiers’ lust with glimpses of bare flesh and lewd gyrating. Raoul had watched with amusement, drunk a few cups of wine, eaten some of the hot spicy food, and decided to give their dubious pleasures a miss. He would go back and give Pierre’s friends the chance to sample their delights, if they felt so inclined. He was personally quite content to do without. Offering the others some laughing insults about their lack of taste, he bade his friends fare as well as they could and left them. Bertrand de Courcy was among those present. Raoul wondered if he’d be tempted to indulge and hoped, if he did, that she’d have foul breath and no teeth.

  Chuckling to himself, he suddenly realised that he’d reached the edge of the Breton camp without finding the men from Azay or the prisoners. How could that be? He hadn’t drunk so much this time that his wits were fuddled. He turned round and went back again. Yes, here was his saddle and all his equipment and here was Gustave’s and Pierre’s. Here, even, were the pieces of rope that he’d untied earlier. This was where they had been but now there wasn’t a trace of them. Virtually everyone in their troop was over by de Flagy’s tent – and they were all so intoxicated by lust and liquor that he’d get no sense from any of them. What was he to do?

  Just then he realised that someone was lying huddled on the ground a few yards away. Raoul approached cautiously. Who was it? Was he sleeping? Or had something more sinister taken place? As he neared the body a gentle snoring sound rose from it, calming Raoul’s fears. He knelt down and shook the man’s shoulder. His face was too muffled by his hooded cloak for it to be visible but his bulk suggested that the man was tall. The clothes were too good for it to be Mathieu Le Gros – and he didn’t stink like the Breton.

  In response to a particularly vicious prod from Raoul, the sleeper spluttered, turned over and opened bleary eyes.

  “Who...? What....?” he mumbled then with a soldier’s instinct for self-preservation, sat up and reached for his weapon.

  “It’s all right; we’re on the same side. What’s your name, soldier?”

  To Raoul’s horror, even in the dim moonlight, it looked a lot like Georges Gautier, one of Pierre’s friends.

  The man’s next words confirmed it.

  “God’s teeth,” Raoul said, “you’re drunk, aren’t you? And what about your friends?”

  The reassurance that he was not in danger made the man sink sleepily back onto the ground.

  “Did you hear me? Where are your companions – Claude? Antoine?”

  “Gone to...city,” Georges muttered.

  “But how could they? The gates are shut – they have been for hours.”

  “Fellow came – knew side door. Good stuff, good time. I’d had ‘nough a’ready...” The man’s eyes were closing as he spoke.

  “But what about my prisoners?” Raoul demanded furiously.

  “Took ‘em. Be a’right. Claude’s in charge...” As he relapsed into sleep, his words became deep bubbling snores.

  Raoul attempted to shake him again into wakefulness but without success. And in any case, he was unlikely to be able to tell him anything else. Raoul’s own chances of finding the postern were remote – and even if he could find someone to direct him to it he’d need a friend on the inside to let him through. He momentarily considered then dismissed the idea of using one of the whores as a guide. They’d want to stay in camp all night getting as much custom as they could. He would simply have to wait until the men returned in the morning – bringing Taloc and Le Gros with them, Raoul devoutly hoped.

  He went across to his baggage, pulled out a blanket, wrapped himself it and lay down to try and sleep. Pierre said they could be trusted; they were his good friends. Raoul prayed that he was right.

  Raoul was awake early the next morning. His wound had itched unbearably in the night and he’d had to force himself not to claw at it. Today the swelling seemed to be worse than ever and his left eye was partially closed. Even his ear seemed to hurt. He unwrapped his covering, found his water-bottle and gently bathed his cheek. The numbing coldness of the water felt good. He poured more onto his kerchief and held it against his face, shutting his eyes in gratitude for the relief it gave him. It was ridiculous that such a small cut could give him so much trouble. After a moment he put the cloth aside and looked round him.

  Last
night his companions had drunk considerably more than he had – and most had tired themselves out in other ways too, he suspected. He was unsurprised therefore to find that no-one else in their camp was stirring. Gustave and Pierre lay huddled in their blankets nearby but Georges Gautier was gone and of the other men from Azay there was no sign.

  Raoul crouched beside Pierre’s inert form and shook him. He smiled beatifically and turned over.

  “Once more, sweetheart. Lemme do it once more,” he muttered.

  “Wake up, for Heaven’s sake,” Raoul snapped. His face was starting to hurt again and he was in no mood to be tolerant. “Pierre, where were your friends camped?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Raoul. You missed a good night. They may not have looked like much but those women knew some tricks, I can tell you!” He shut his eyes and gave a reminiscent grin.

  “Never mind that. Your friends took those prisoners into the city and I don’t know where they are. Bertrand would just love it if I’ve lost them.”

  “But how could they go into the city?” Pierre peered at him sleepily, then yawned and stretched.

  “According to one of them – Gautier – someone came. Stop asking useless questions and just tell me where their camp is.”

  Pierre propped himself on one elbow and pointed over to the right.

  “Over there – beyond the lot from Montrieul. See, where the green and white pennant’s flying.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Go and find them, of course.”

  “But what if...”

  “Oh, just go back to sleep, Pierre! I don’t need your help.”

  “I wasn’t offering it.”

  Chardin pulled his blankets over his head and lay back down again.

  Raoul threaded his way among the sleeping soldiers. Some of the squires were awake now, bleary eyed and yawning. A local woman, looking even worse by daylight, emerged from one of the tents. Was it Bertrand’s? Raoul rather thought it was. He gave a lop-sided grin. Perhaps the experience would have mellowed de Courcy a little. If his father-in-law had had a similarly stimulating night perhaps they’d defer the court until much later in the day.

  As he reached the encampment he was making for, Raoul noticed two large men stumbling towards him from the far side of the camp. As they drew closer, his heart sank. Despite their altered appearance, it was unmistakably Pierre’s missing friends. Their clothes were torn and filthy; Antoine’s face was badly bruised and smeared with blood; Claude could hardly walk.

  Raoul ran towards them.

  “What in God’s name happened?”

  “Don’t ask! We should have known better.” Claude shook his head despairingly. “You’re de Metz, aren’t you? Well, your prisoners are gone.”

  He sank to the ground with a groan, his head clutched in his hands.

  “How so?” Raoul asked Antoine grimly.

  “We were taken to a tavern,” Antoine spoke with difficulty through battered lips, “by some Byzantine bastard. He seemed friendly enough at first. But they’ve a grudge against Crusaders – the Germans caused trouble here – and they took it out on us. It was obvious your lads were not our friends so the bastards let them go then beat us up.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “Oh, we gave as good as we got.” Claude attempted a grin. “Between us we broke a few heads, I can tell you!”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “You said you wanted rid of those miserable buggers – well, we did that much for you at least.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  Antoine sensed Raoul’s unspoken anger.

  “Look, sorry, but there was nothing we could do. We owe you one for letting you down. Call on us any time.”

  “Well, now seems as good a time as any – or once you’ve had a chance to clean up at any rate.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Find my captain Bertrand de Courcy and tell him what you just told me. That way if I don’t come back at least he won’t think I’ve run off with them.”

  “Why? Where are you going?” Claude called after Raoul who was hurrying away.

  “Into the city to find them and bring them back, of course.”

  “Without your mail-shirt or your sword? You must be mad!”

  Raoul stopped and turned back.

  “If Crusaders are as unpopular as you say, I think I’m better as I am.”

  Without waiting to hear what else they had to say, he started to walk rapidly towards Byzantium’s main gates.

  Even without a Norman helmet or red cross on his tunic, Raoul felt immensely conspicuous as soon as he was inside the walls. No-one had challenged him or prevented his entry but his tunic, trews and soft leather boots were very different from the local dress, varied though that was. He was aware of sideways glances and black looks.

  Near the gates, narrow streets and alley ways led off in all directions criss-crossing like threads in a spider’s web. There were stalls and traders everywhere. After a while Raoul noticed that many of the men wore cloths tied round their heads and colourful thin cloaks around their shoulders. Using a few of the coins in his pouch, Raoul purchased similar ones and slipped behind a pillar to put them on. He fastened the head-covering and was about to put on the cloak when he spotted a child watching him from the other side of the street.

  Perhaps five or six years old, he was small and gaunt with huge liquid dark eyes. He clutched a bulging bag against his thin chest and looked up at Raoul with an unblinking stare.

  “Crusader!” he suddenly stated accusingly, using the French word and raising a finger to point.

  Raoul shook his head.

  “Conjuror,” he said hastily in Greek, dredging the word up from the depths of his memory. The child continued to point and seemed about to speak again, probably louder this time. Raoul put down the cloak and hastily fished a coin from his pouch, made it apparently disappear then produced it from behind the boy’s ear.

  “Conjuror. You see?”

  The child stared unwaveringly. Raoul did the trick again but with further elaborations. One or two passers-by paused and laughed.

  “What is this?” Raoul squatted in front of the child and tapped the bag.

  He announced something which Raoul didn’t understand but opened it sufficiently to show its contents. It was full of fruit. Raoul had only seen this sort once or twice before. They were bright orange in colour and, he recalled, fragrant, juicy and delicious.

  “Now look!”

  To the child’s alarm and initial dismay, Raoul took three of the fruit and tossed them into the air. After a few moments he picked up a fourth and then really let himself go, revelling in the simple pleasure of juggling – something he hadn’t done for some time, though he’d lost none of his skill. He almost forgot where he was and why he was there. He made passes behind his back, under his legs, caught one orange his teeth and finally added in a fifth fruit to attempt even more complicated manoeuvres. The child by now was beaming and clapping his hands in delight.

  When Raoul eventually caught all the oranges to return them, he was surprised to find a small crowd had clustered around. They all grinned and clapped and apparently clamoured for more. Raoul shook his head and made a show of mopping his brow with his head-cloth. But he smiled gratefully and bowed when several pressed small coins into his hand before continuing on their way. To his amusement he realised that he had made about twice as much as he had spent at the stall.

  He replaced the oranges in the child’s bag, patted him on the head, picked up his new cloak and started to move away. He had not gone far when there was a sharp cry behind him. He stopped and turned. The child was running towards him shouting. Apprehensively, Raoul waited. Was he still going to denounce him as one of the hated Crusaders?

  “Conjuror!” the boy called. He pulled an orange from the bag and held it out to Raoul with an immense grin.


  Raoul smiled lopsidedly.

  “Thank you, my little friend. “Conjuror” will have an orange with pleasure.”

  He took the fruit and began to peel it, releasing a heady fragrance. The child waved cheerfully then ran off, clutching the bag to his chest more tightly than ever. As he bit into the first segment, Raoul hoped the boy wouldn’t get into trouble for bringing home fewer than he should. Squatting in an empty doorway, he savoured each juicy morsel. Once the last tiny fragment was gone, he draped the cloak round his shoulders and re-joined the bustling clamour of the street.

  After walking through the city for some time, Raoul started to believe that his was a hopeless task. There seemed to thousands of people in Byzantium, of all races and speaking in all languages. Having decided to speak Greek almost by chance, to Raoul’s amusement, he heard other people speaking something very similar – or perhaps they simply said the words in a different way. Who knew where Brother Mark had learned his pronunciation?

  He was away from the crowded markets now, amongst massive houses built behind high stone walls, dazzling in the bright sun. It was like nowhere he had ever been before – even the narrow street was paved and a channel was grooved down the centre to carry away the water when it rained. He sensed that this great city was much older and more permanent than any other he had seen.

  But this was useless. It must be nearly mid-day. He would have to return to the camp and confess that he had failed. He turned right into a narrower street then right again, heading back down the hill. Then he froze. A woman’s scream rang out from the alley to his left. He pulled out his dagger and ran towards the sound.

  Sprawled on the ground some distance away lay a man dressed in white. Beyond him, a dark-clad woman was pressed against the wall. She wasn’t screaming now. One man held her wrists pinned above her head while another was pulling off her jewellery and stuffing it in his pouch. Raoul realised without surprise that her attackers were his missing prisoners. Mathieu Le Gros was holding her while Jean Taloc robbed her. As Raoul dashed forward, the bearded man seized the neck of her tunic and ripped it open. They both peered down delightedly as Taloc groped for her breasts.