AWAY EAST OVER THE THOUSAND-TONGUED SEA, WITH ALL its sweet promises, its stabs and sudden rushes, one silver-gold blade of light.
A sword. No! A scimitar. That’s what I saw when I lifted the salt-sticky flap of our tent.
Lord Stephen and I reached Venice at noon yesterday with Turold, our armorer, and our stableman, Rhys. Saint John’s Eve. The day when Winnie kissed me right on the mouth, two years ago, long before we were betrothed.
We weren’t allowed into Venice herself. All the crusaders are billeted out here on the island of Saint Nicholas. But we’ve been invited to a sea-feast in the city, and so have Milon de Provins and his squire, Bertie, who is only thirteen.
Frenchmen wearing red crosses, Germans and Italians, Flemings with their green crosses: There are thousands and thousands of crusaders on this island, but we haven’t met any other Englishmen yet.
All night I slept and stirred and slept to the sounds of water. They washed away our seven-week journey.
The sun rose; I was newborn.