BERTIE SAYS WE MAY SAIL TO EGYPT,” I TOLD LORD Stephen.
“Who told him that?” Lord Stephen demanded, blinking like an indignant owl.
“Milon’s men.”
“And why should they know?”
“Are we, sir?” I asked.
Lord Stephen dug his elbows into his mattress and sat up. “Rumors,” he said, “are nothing but rumors. But I did warn you that we might be ill-advised to head straight for Jerusalem. That’s what the Saracens expect. And where they’re best prepared.”
“But why Egypt, sir?”
In my head I could see Gatty standing in the little armory at Caldicot holding a pair of fustian breeches, and my telling her they came from El-Fustat in Egypt, and her asking me, “What’s Egypt?”
“Why Egypt?” Lord Stephen repeated. “Because it’s the storehouse of the Saracen world. Rich in grain and fruit and spices. Rich in gold. Do you know what the city of Alexandria’s called?”
“No, sir.”
“The market between the two worlds: between the land oversea and North Africa. If we can take control of the Saracens’ storehouse and cut their lines of communication…”
“The Venetians won’t like that,” I said. “The shipwright told me about all the trade between Venice and Egypt, and Bertie and I met three traders from Alexandria. One of them told me that Muhammad was a trader.”
Lord Stephen harrumphed.
“There’s another thing I wanted to ask you, sir.”
“There always is,” Lord Stephen replied.
But before I could ask why Cardinal Capuano attacked women, almost as if he were afraid of them, a horseman rode in to our camp.
I brought the man back into our tent.
“A message from the Marquis Boniface, sir,” the man told us. “He says twelve thousand men have assembled here on Saint Nicholas but we signed an agreement with the Venetians to build ships for thirty-three thousand men, and are obliged to pay for them. There is no alternative.”
“We are well aware of that,” Lord Stephen said very drily. “We’ve been reminded of it each day since we arrived.”
“In the name of suffering Christ,” the messenger said, “the marquis calls on each earl and lord in this army, each knight, each squire, each foot soldier, armorer, and stableman, to give money or valuables to help. Let each man consider what he can give.”
Lord Stephen blinked at the marquis’s messenger. “I will consider it,” he said. “And you, Sir Arthur. You will, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know!” said Lord Stephen, his eyes gleaming. “You could give that silver pledge-penny.”
I put my hands to my neck.
“Well, halfpenny!” Lord Stephen said.
“Sir,” said the messenger. “I don’t think the marquis means…”
“I should hope not!” Lord Stephen said, smiling. “What’s the use of honoring one commitment by dishonoring another?”
“Within three days,” the messenger said, “one of the marquis’s envoys will visit you to discuss this matter further.” He bowed, and left the tent, and almost immediately another man rode in. A second messenger from the marquis.
“Dear Lord!” said Lord Stephen. “What next? Do you remember mornings like this at Holt?”
“You are Sir Arthur de Gortanore?” the messenger asked me.
Am I? De Caldicot? De Gortanore? How long will it take me to get used to my name?
“When Marquis Boniface arrived on Saint Nicholas,” said the messenger, “he began a search for the youngest and oldest knights in this army to accompany him to meet the Doge. We have visited each camp. You are sixteen years old, and not yet six months?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Then you, Sir Arthur, are the youngest knight on this island.”
I gasped.
Lord Stephen clapped a hand on my shoulder. Then he turned to the messenger. “What about the oldest knight?” he said. “Who is he?”
“He’s sixty-seven, almost sixty-eight,” the messenger said. “Sir William de Gortanore!”