The Long Sword

by Christian Cameron

  Fra Juan shocked me by opening and reading every letter.

  He shrugged and raised his eyebrows. ‘Welcome to the service of the Church of Christ,’ he said. ‘We have some mean bastards in my Father’s house.’

  I had never heard Fra Juan, or any other Hospitaller, refer to any churchman with anything but reverence. But the daggers were out in Avignon.

  When he’d read through all the letters and scrolls and called in a pair of Hospitaller sisters who carefully – and expertly – repaired the seals he’d broken, he turned to me.

  ‘Tell me of your trip,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything. Leave nothing out.’

  Fra Peter had never cautioned me against Fra Juan in any way, and he was my superior. So I told him the whole story, as fully as I could: Bologna, Venice, Prague, Krakow and back, not leaving out a small encounter in a square east of Nuremberg.

  He steepled his fingers like Father Pierre and nodded, but he didn’t interrupt.

  When I was done, he scratched his beard. ‘Very complete. You won a tournament under the eyes of the Emperor? You know that our Order is expressly forbidden to fight in such affairs? Eh?’

  I sat back, stricken. ‘I—’

  ‘Please don’t tell me you didn’t know. I believe I have taught you the Rule myself.’ Fra Juan, for all his ambition and occasional venality, was a commanding figure.

  I stuttered like a boy caught stealing.

  He waved. ‘A minor sin next to the fame you won us. I will get you a pardon and a light penance, I promise you, but as long as you are on duty and wear the Order’s habit, it is forbidden. Yes?’

  I swallowed.

  ‘Sometimes, in this Order, we do things that are forbidden for the good of all. You know what the good Fra Peter says: it is possible that we will go to Hell? And that is a worthy thing for a knight to give his soul for others that they may see heaven. So much for the sin of pride. Are you strong, my son? In your faith? In your belief in God?’ He frowned.

  I sat very still.

  He handed me a large square of parchment. It was stained brown.

  As I bent it, it cracked.

  ‘This came wrapped around some meat,’ Fra Juan said. His eyes met mine. ‘It was addressed to you.’

  I swallowed again. My mouth was full of salt.

  ‘The letter is in Latin, and it was easier to read before the blood dried,’ Fra Juan said. ‘Did you know a young woman named Anne?’

  In a moment, I couldn’t hear him. Instead, I was seeing the ginger-bearded man who had followed me and watched me with Anne.

  I may be a damned fool when I have been hit in the head, but I’m accounted quick enough to do sums and audit the accounts of the Order, or to carry a message between cardinals. Or command armies.

  ‘… dead,’ Fra di Heredia said. ‘I believe that this was to have held her heart.’

  I was shaking.

  Fra Juan leaned forward. He spoke very slowly, as if I was a child, and very quietly. ‘These are bad men, even by my standards, Sir William. And very, very powerful men.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Their intention was to force you to meet with them. To turn you to their will.’

  A small area of the parchment was legible, and in neat copyist’s Latin it said, ‘meet’ and then ‘To your advantage’ and later ‘unfortunate’.

  ‘This wasn’t the first letter,’ I said heavily.

  Fra Juan pursed his lips. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There was a letter the same day you left. And when you did not attend their meeting, they meant to kill her.’ He looked at me.

  ‘You are killing me, my lord. Is she alive?’ I asked.

  ‘And very far away.’ Heredia nodded. ‘You owe me for this – understand?’

  I fell to my knees, as the Order’s spymaster no doubt intended. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care that he had two mistresses and more ambition than the entire college of cardinals.

  ‘I took her from them. It is not important how.’ He shrugged, and in his long, ascetic Spanish face I saw a man as dangerous as any I had known. He permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction, and then the smile was gone. His eyes were bland – and blank. ‘I like you, Sir William. We have many things in common. You owe me one. That is all, except that the Bishop of Geneva means our legate harm, and this was but a small battle in that war.’ The Spanish knight tapped his teeth with his thumb. ‘Do not, I pray, offer this man or his minions any more hostages.’ He leaned back. ‘How is my … nephew?’ he asked.

  At the time, I barely noticed his hesitation. ‘An excellent man, my lord, and ready for knighthood.’

  ‘Ah!’ Fra Juan nodded. ‘It is that time – indeed, the Crusade is a noble occasion. Thank you for the reminder.’

  I went to my cell, lay full length on the cold floor, and prayed.

  When I went down to eat with my brothers, I felt better, and that lasted for some hours, until I realised that Marc-Antonio was missing.

  The Hospital was almost empty of knights and donats and even mercenary men-at-arms. They were all headed to Venice for the Passagium Generale and any knight worthy of his habit was with them except di Heredia, who was the Pope’s commander in Avignon.

  I went to him first, instead of running through the streets like a fool.

  ‘I will send a message,’ he said. He looked at me. ‘Expect the worst.’

  With the Bourc and d’Herblay, the worst was bad indeed. ‘I will kill them,’ I said. ‘The Bourc Camus.’ I paused. ‘The Comte d’Herblay.’

  Di Heredia shrugged. ‘Just do not ask my permission,’ he said. ‘I command you not to leave the environs of the Hospital.’

  While I fretted in my cell and tried to pray, I realised a number of things. I realised that Emile was a Savoyard, and that she lived somewhere in the debatable counties between Geneva and Burgundy. Her husband had served with the Savoyards at Brignais.

  Her husband, who hated her, and knew the Bourc Camus.

  Yet even in my panic, and as I began to understand the power of the coalition against Father Pierre and how I could be used against him, I was deep in panic. Still, I knew that Emile was a practical woman with a talent for controlling her husband. And that she would not have a will that would allow him a brass farthing if she were kidnapped and killed. I had to credit her with that much sense.

  And further, it is difficult to protect a woman you have not seen in two years and more.

  I prayed. It is one of the times that I’d say prayer helped me the most, in that with prayer came the clarity, sent, I think, by that fine soldier Saint Maurice: the clarity to see that my first duty lay to my squire.

  And as I rose from my knees, a Turkish slave fetched me to attend Fra Juan.

  ‘My friend Robert, Bishop of Geneva, has been polite enough to say that there has been some misunderstanding, that Marc-Antonio was rescued from some brigands and is safe, and will be returned to you unharmed. And all you have to do is go and fetch him.’ Di Heredia tapped his teeth with his thumbnail. ‘I am almost sure that they do not mean to kill you. But almost sure is separated from sure by the length of a dagger … You know that expression?’

  ‘I can handle myself,’ I said, or something equally foolish and untrue.

  He nodded. ‘They can kill you. My question is: what can they offer you to turn you? Would you betray Father Pierre?’

  ‘No!’ I said, hotly.

  ‘Good,’ Fra Juan said. ‘Try to remember that. If I don’t see you in three hours, I’ll pay them a visit.’

  I rode to the bishop’s palace and dismounted, leaving my riding horse with servants. The Bishop of Geneva had a palace as large as most of the cardinals, and larger than the Hospital. I wore the Emperor’s sword – it was like a talisman, and it made me brave, but in truth, I was terrified. Battle is one thing. This was another.

  The major-domo, a deacon, escorted me t
o the great hall. The bishop sat on a low throne, with men standing around him. The hall was hung in tapestries, magnificent weavings of war and the chase and scenes from the chansons. The blues were vibrant and alive, the reds stark. A hart bled out, and its blood pooled in scarlet silk almost to the floor.

  I wore my surcoat of the Order, a little travel stained. It was, I thought, the best armour I had.

  The bishop raised an arm from where he sat on a low dais. ‘Sir William!’ he called. His voice was a trifle high, but so is mine. His slightly protuberant eyes locked on mine. He smiled. ‘Please grace us with your presence.’

  The Bourc Camus was standing at his right side. D’Herblay was nowhere to be seen. Marc-Antonio was with them; he had a cut across his face and a black eye, but he was well dressed and he was smiling. I didn’t know the other men.

  I bowed, fully and respectfully. ‘My lord, I came as soon as I received your message.’ This was the tack that di Heredia and I had determined on. ‘I am so relieved to see my squire in good spirits.’

  The bishop smiled. It transformed his long, narrow face, pleasant enough to be considered handsome, to a devil’s. If he had had fangs, I couldn’t have been more shocked. ‘And for my part, Sir William, I am so glad you could come, as my last invitation …’ he glanced at Camus, ‘went awry.’

  Camus glared at me.

  ‘I hope your shoulder is better,’ I said sweetly. ‘Fiore can be hasty.’

  Camus’s mouth worked. But no sound emerged.

  ‘The Bourc has been forbidden to speak,’ the bishop said. ‘Because between his hatred and your adolescent posturing, I would be moved to haste. Please confine yourself to speaking to me.’

  I bowed my head. ‘My lord, that is too great a privilege. I will take my squire and go, leaving you with my thanks and saving you—’

  ‘Shut up.’ The bishop snapped his fingers at me. ‘Do not speak until I ask you to.’ He waved at the two men by him. ‘Take the boy to the solar until we are done.’

  I share with Marc-Antonio a certain willingness to spit at my superiors, but as they had him and I didn’t, I thought I’d be meek. I bowed my head. My sword was already loose in my sheath and they hadn’t taken it from me. Marc-Antonio threw me a glance as they escorted him down the hall and into a small room that opened off the great fireplace.

  ‘The last time I summoned you, you chose not to come. This time you have come, and this is the wiser course. Agree?’ His voice snapped like a silk flag in the wind.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ I said.

  ‘You suffer from weaknesses of the flesh. Many do. If I eradicate them, you will be a better man, will you not? Agree?’

  ‘I agree that I suffer from weakness, my lord, I am a sinful—’ I tried to sound contrite – and stupid.

  ‘Save your false piety, Gold. You are a dog of a killer like the mongrel at my elbow. I know your kind. You have more loyalty than most, although I am not surprised that a man and not a woman brought you running. He’s quite pretty and Camus wants him. Don’t you?’

  Camus spat something.

  ‘You are forbidden to speak, monsieur,’ the bishop said.

  ‘I am not a sodomite!’ Camus said.

  The bishop laughed, and his ringed hand struck Camus – hard. The Bourc went a livid red-brown. Blood emerged from where the bishop’s amethyst ring had cut him. ‘Please do not speak,’ the bishop said.

  Camus mastered himself.

  The bishop went on, ‘I know your kind, as I was saying. I want you to understand that, and to understand that if you do what I tell you, you will be rich and well-contented, and if you do not, you will be dead and so will everyone you value. I am spending the time to speak to you in person because men like you and John Hawkwood are becoming very valuable. But not because you are valuable enough to me to make bargains. I give the commands, you obey. Clear?’

  I met his eyes. Sadly, they were not mad. Not crazed. I had seen the poor creatures in London and Paris and Venice who are mad clear through, who believe they are Prester John. I saw one, caught in London, who had killed four women with a knife.

  The Bishop of Geneva looked at me with the eyes of a banker, or a clever merchant. Or a bad priest. Or a great lord.

  ‘No, my lord,’ I said. ‘I will not obey you.’ I gathered courage and spoke. ‘My spiritual lord is Father Pierre Thomas—’

  ‘Spare me the recitation of your devotion to that penniless adventurer. He has no see and no hope of every commanding one. Patriarch of Constantinople – I wish he would go there and martyr himself with the schismatics!’ His spit flecked me. Mention of Father Pierre made him angry.

  ‘He is my lord,’ I said.

  The bishop smiled and squirmed in his throne, resettling himself. ‘How much would it cost me to have you kill him?’ he asked. ‘Would a hundred ducats cover it?’

  I made myself breathe. I was scared, but he had taken too long. My terror was past the point of incoherence. And I had my sword, given me by the Emperor. I stood. My knees hurt, and I had been kneeling in front of the bishop all through our interview. Camus stepped back – and drew.

  I did not. Camus was too far from me to strike in one step. ‘You have spent too much time with the carrion crow you employ,’ I said. ‘You imagine things that are untrue, my lord. I ignored your first summons, as you call it, because I was not here at all—’

  ‘Please shut up,’ the bishop said.

  ‘I came this time to retrieve my squire, who I will now take, and if you, my lord, or the Bourc, your slave, crosses my path, I’ll kill you right here.’

  I’ll give the bishop this much, he merely waved his hand at my threat, as if bored. ‘Take your Ganymede and take the consequences,’ he said. ‘I enjoy punishing sinners. You will be fully punished, I think, for not knowing your place. You are a cook, not a knight. And God hates adultery, cook’s boy.’

  I still hadn’t drawn, and I allowed my left hand to caress my hilt. ‘The Emperor thought differently,’ I said. I was ten steps from the Bourc, and my hand went to the door. ‘Send for my horse, my lord,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘You are a bold rascal. You think you can just walk away?’

  I looked about me carefully. ‘If you had a dozen men with arbalests wound, I would see the odds as long.’ I met his eyes. ‘But even if you had them, I promise you that the first man to die would be you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he said easily.

  ‘Keep telling yourself that. My lord.’ I pushed the solar door open. ‘Come, Marc-Antonio,’ I said, and turned and began to walk towards the bishop on his dais.

  Camus, sword drawn, stepped between us.

  Three steps from him, I flicked my eyes and saw Marc-Antonio emerge from the solar. I altered course, stepping to the right. Camus turned.

  ‘Ah, Bourc. He has you leashed and muzzled, like the dog you are!’ I said, and smiled. I licked my lips at him.

  Marc-Antonio passed behind me, headed for the door of the great hall.

  Camus’s face worked and muscles bulged. I stepped backwards towards the door.

  ‘You have no idea,’ whispered the Bourc.

  In a way, that was more frightening than any other part of the interview.

  I backed out the door with my sword still in the scabbard. Because I knew that if I drew, I would kill, and I was old enough to know the consequences.

  I heard the bishop laugh. ‘Tell Madame d’Herblay to say her prayers,’ he called. ‘False as Jezebel, doomed to hell. Eternity in hell – for fucking a cook’s boy!’

  Camus slammed the oak door in my face.

  I went to the stables and got my riding horse, still saddled, thanks to Saint George and Saint John and all the saints. My hands were shaking. In fact, I’ll admit I could scarcely stand, and to this day I’m proud of the badinage I made with that devil, the Bishop. I got Marc-Antonio up
behind me, and we rode at a gallop through the streets as if the Legion of Hell was behind us.

  As soon as we were through the gate of the Hospital, di Heredia sent for us. He embraced me and sent me to my cell and took Marc-Antonio.

  He interrogated my squire for more than two hours. I heard all about it over the next few weeks. He was not kind: he treated Marc-Antonio as if the boy was hostile, an enemy.

  Then, without allowing me to see my squire, he sent for me.

  ‘He bought you?’ di Heredia asked, his voice heavy with contempt.

  I shot to my feet. ‘Crap! Merde. Nothing of the kind.’

  He spent thirty minutes on me. He told me that Marc-Antonio had turned on me; he told me that I’d promised to kill Father Pierre.

  At one point, I wept. It was so unfair and I went from rage to humiliation to anger to sorrow. I was wretched.

  In half an hour.

  The bells rang for Vespers, and di Heredia put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come, come, my son. Let us go sing the divine offices.’

  I looked up at him.

  He frowned. ‘I had to be sure.,’ he said.

  I sobbed a bit – relief, mostly. I’m not proud of that part. Finally, when I was master of myself, I dried my eyes. ‘What in God’s name is this about?’ I asked. ‘I can’t make sense of it!’

  Juan di Heredia smiled his thin smile. He got his beads off a hook, and pulled a full robe on over his arming clothes, which he wore all the time. He sat and tapped his teeth with his thumb. ‘That you cannot make sense of it speaks only to your youth,’ he said. ‘It is about power.’

  ‘Power?’ I asked.

  Di Heredia nodded. ‘If the crusade succeeds, the man who is legate will be the Pope. Even if it fails, that man will probably be Pope. The bishop of Geneva and his friends need the papacy to remain as it is.’ He made a sign I didn’t know. ‘Come, let us sing.’

  I shook my head and followed him.

  He paused. ‘Do you know the gospels, my young knight?’ he asked.