The slave market of Bougie was a riot of colour beneath the dark blue African sky. Men and women moved about, dressed in brightly striped robes, golden ear-rings and armbands glittering in the aching sunlight. The painfully white square buildings flung back the sun’s heat and light against the eyes, until it was almost unbearable to look at them.
Here and there, under scores of red and blue awnings, the children stood or squatted, still tied, while dark-skinned merchants moved among them, selecting one, rejecting another, always smiling and nodding, as though they were at peace with the world, as though Saracen power would never crumble or its wealth grow less.
Geoffrey had been brought up to regard men with brown skins as being somehow inferior to those with white, the men he knew, knights like his father with fair or red hair, and a love of dogs and horses. And now a man with a deep brown skin, approached him, staring down arrogantly upon him, surveying him from crown to toe with dark crafty eyes. The boy could sense that this man was rich; his turban was encircled with bands of twisted gold, his fingers were heavy with the same metal, while a thick silver-thread fringe flapped lazily at the hem of his brocade robe.
Yet when the man stretched out his hand to feel Geoffrey’s muscles, the boy pulled away, almost in disgust. ‘I am not a fat pig to be prodded!’ he shouted. ‘I am Geoffrey of Beauregard and a true Frenchman!’
The Saracen’s hand stopped in mid-air. His head bowed slightly and with infinite grace. His dark eyes narrowed, so that there were wrinkles at their corners. His thin-lipped mouth twisted itself into a smile of immense amusement.
And when he spoke, it was in a French so pure, so well articulated, that King Philip himself could not have equalled it.
‘I am delighted to meet you, Geoffrey of Beauregard,’ the Saracen said gently. ‘I am Abu Nazir, once a soldier of some small fame, now a merchant among other things.’
The boy replied, ‘I am not concerned with what you were, or what you are. A Saracen is a Saracen, whatever he chooses to call himself, just as a wolf is a wolf; nothing more!’
The man regarded Geoffrey solemnly for an instant, then blew upon the finger-nails of his right hand and carefully polished them on his left forearm.
And when he had done this, he said quietly, ‘Your father, Robert of Beauregard, with whom I have had the honour to break a lance on a number of occasions, always showed excellent manners, whatever the occasion. His son does not seem to be blessed with the same gifts.’
Now Geoffrey gazed with astonishment at the merchant. ‘I beg your pardon, Saracen,’ he said, as proudly as he could manage, ‘I took you for less than what you are. Any man my father thinks worthy of fighting has a certain merit.’
Once more the merchant polished his finger-nails with meticulous care. Then he said, almost lazily, ‘That little castle of yours at Beauregard—is it still as damp and draughty as it used to be? And the tapestry that your gentle Lady Mother was making, with her ladies, the one with huntsmen and hounds bounding across it—was it ever finished? I have often wondered.’
Now Geoffrey’s mouth stopped trying to be proud, and fell open in blank amazement.
The Saracen laughed and patted him kindly on the shoulder.
‘Do not look so much like a suckling-pig with an apple in its mouth at Rouen Fair!’ he said. ‘There is no magic in it. Once I lived in Cordova, and was a member of a mission which came to France. Your father did me the honour of entertaining me for a while. I have not forgotten him—or you. A squawking little bundle you were, in those days, and haven’t improved since, it seems!’
Then, as Geoffrey gazed at him, speechless, the merchant began to move away, leaning heavily on his silver-mounted staff of ebony.
Suddenly the boy’s heart was full of fear. ‘Sir,’ he called, ‘I am . . . I am . . .’
And his tongue would carry him no further, such was his shame.
The Saracen turned back and said gently, ‘I understand, Geoffrey of Beauregard. You need say no more. I shall buy you, whatever the price, if only because your Lady Mother thought so highly of you, you and the tapestry! I will also buy one other friend of yours, if there is one for whom you feel a special affection!’
He paused for a while, running his sharp eyes up and down Gerard, the priest, who stood behind Geoffrey but had remained silent.
‘Preferably,’ went on the Saracen, ‘one who knows and can teach Latin and Greek, for I am instructed by my master, the Governor of Egypt, al-Kamil, Son of al-Adil, the Great One, to bring back only those slaves who can be used as interpreters, teachers and secretaries.’
Brother Gerard bowed his head humbly and said, ‘I thank you, sir, for your consideration, but I must advise you that I am a priest, a Christian man. Much as I would wish to be by the side of my charge, Geoffrey of Beauregard, my faith forbids me to do so if, by so doing, I must forsake Christ and follow Mahomet.’
The Saracen turned towards him and smiled, musingly, until Brother Gerard’s eyes dropped. Then he said lightly, ‘Have no fear, priest. My master, al-Kamil, is a civilised person! It is not his wish to offend those who serve him. A happy slave is an efficient slave, Christian! Let us put it like that, and leave the conversation there. I shall give orders that you are both to be put aboard my ship tonight. There is no more to say.’
He had made two paces away from the friends when he paused once again, and turning said slyly, ‘Oh, yes, there is something I omitted to say. Geoffrey of Beauregard, tonight you will be pleased you begged my pardon for your rudeness! Or, should I perhaps say, pleased that your mother once did me the kindness of broaching her best cask of wine in my entertainment!’
And then he was gone, among the crowds, and the two friends were left gazing after him in wonder.