74
NOTHING BUT PAWNS

I DIDN’T WANT TO GO. NOT AFTER WHAT HAPPENED THERE. But I had no choice. Lord Stephen and Sir William and Serle and I all went to Milon’s hall as soon as we’d finished supper, and Simona came with us.

Milon told us German envoys from the court of King Philip of Swabia arrived here last night. The first day of this new year. They met the Doge and Marquis Boniface and the French leaders this morning, and there was a second meeting this afternoon.

“First,” said Milon, “they tell us our duty.”

“We know our duty,” said Serle.

“They say we march for God, we march to right what is wrong, and now our duty is to help people who have been robbed.”

“Who has been robbed?” Lord Stephen asked suspiciously.

“We have,” said Serle. “We’ve been robbed of Jerusalem.”

Milon stuck out his jaw and pursed his mouth. “Me first!” he said. “Then you. The envoys come from King Philip and his wife’s brother, Alexius Angelus. Crown Prince of Constantinople. His throne has been robbed. He is the true Emperor, not his uncle.” Milon turned to Serle. “You how old?” he asked.

“Me? Nineteen.”

“Very good. Alexius Angelus nineteen. He and King Philip say if the crusaders lay siege to Constantinople and help him, he help us. He give us food when Venetians, Venetians…” Milon tossed his head and turned to Simona.

“The Venetians are providing all the crusaders with food for one year,” Simona explained. “Until Saint John’s Eve. After that, Alexius Angelus will.”

“Si,” said Milon. “Also he give us two hundred thousand silver marks. Two hundred thousand! And also he raise crusader army of ten thousand men.”

“Moonshine!” said Sir William. “Supplies, silver, men…they don’t come as cheaply as words.”

“Let’s hear the terms,” Lord Stephen said irritably.

“Lickspittle promises!” grumbled Sir William.

“And Alexius Angelus offer to send five hundred knights to the Kingdom of Jerusalem,” continued Milon, “and keep them there.”

“Blether!” exclaimed Sir William.

“And,” said Milon, spreading his arms, “Alexius Angelus say his empire—Byzantine Empire—will swear obedience to Rome.” Slowly he shook his head as if he could scarcely believe what he was saying.

“It does sound generous,” I said.

“Why doesn’t this pretender offer us paradise?” Sir William demanded.

“What do you think, sir?” I asked Milon.

“Doge reminds crusaders we still owe Venice thirty-four thousand silver marks,” Milon replied.

“And with the money Alexius Angelus promises, we could pay our debt,” Lord Stephen said.

“Si,” said Milon.

“I know what I think,” Sir William said. “If you Frenchmen and the Doge accept this offer, our crusade will be doomed. It will be a disaster.”

No one replied.

“People make mistakes and survive them,” Sir William said. “God knows, I’ve made mistakes. But this would be monstrous! We’re pilgrims, aren’t we? Soldiers of Christ.”

Sir William was speaking louder and louder, and I thought of Pagan and Milon’s men and the Saracens, and suddenly felt afraid.

“No!” my father exclaimed. “We’re just pawns. Pawns in the hands of leaders using our crusade for their own purposes.”

“The Abbot de Vaux say we must go straight to Jerusalem,” Milon said. “Count de Montfort say so.”

“Sir William de Gortanore agrees,” my father announced. “What about you, Serle? As if I can’t guess!”

“I’m not sure,” said Serle.

“You never are,” Sir William retorted.

“I mean, it’s not up to me.”

“It is,” said my father. “You, Arthur?”

“I don’t know enough, sir. Is it true Alexius Angelus should be Emperor? Will we have to attack Constantinople? It’s a Christian city. How long will all this take?”

“Quite right, Arthur,” Lord Stephen said. “Hasty choices are usually wrong ones.”

“I do know what I want, though,” I added. “I want to enter the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”

“This German offer may sound simple,” Lord Stephen said, “but the consequences will be enormous.”

“I’m surprised you two haven’t died of a surfeit of your own words,” Sir William remarked.

“On the whole, though, Sir William,” Lord Stephen continued, “I think I incline to agree with you.”

On our way back to our tower-house, Sir William fell into step with me. At least he tried to. But his bones ache, and he quickly runs out of breath.

“I’m sixty-eight,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Slow down, can’t you! We’re not sailing until Easter.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Easter…and then what? Constantinople! I tell you, Arthur, if things go on like this, I’ll not see Gortanore again.” Sir William was panting. “Tom will have Gortanore and the manor in Champagne. I’ve told you that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s where Lady Cécile lives.” Then, to my astonishment, my father slung his left arm round my shoulders, and whether it was in kinship or to slow me down, I’ll never be sure. “And you know I’ve named you heir to Catmole.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s your right,” gasped Sir William. “For God’s sake, what’s the hurry? I’ve told you about it, have I?”

“One foot in England and one foot in Wales,” I replied.

“The river in loops,” Sir William said. “The shapely mound, yes, the manor-mound, and the greenness of the green in the watermeadows. I’d be glad to ride there again, boy.”