The great house of al-Kamil at Damietta was a place of rest after the long voyage from Bougie. Brother Gerard sat with Alys and Geoffrey beside the ornamental fountain of white alabaster in the great courtyard, and together they recalled the adventures that had befallen them on the way.
Two days out from Bougie a Frankish ship had appeared from nowhere, trying to run across their bows to stop them, and, when the Saracen oarsmen had bent their backs like demons to avoid a boarding, had sent flight after flight of arrows after them. Jebel Kamal had stood up, amid the deadly hail, shouting abuse at the Franks. By some miracle, he was not hit, though the bulwark against which he leaned was suddenly thick with quivering arrows.
Abu Nazir had laughed and said, ‘Sit down, man, and say your prayers! The devil will not go on protecting you!’ Geoffrey had been impressed by the bravery of the Saracens in this affair. Always, back at home in Beauregard, the men freshly back from crusading had spoken of them as ‘blackfaced cowards’; but now the boy was seeing them in a new light. For a start, few of the Saracens he had met had black faces. Indeed, they were little darker in colour than many French peasants, who spent their days in the Provencal sun, harvesting; and, as for being cowards, well, such men as Jebel Kamal and Abu Nazir himself seemed the equal of most of the knights who had hunted or jousted at Beauregard.
As for Alys, her time had been spent in looking after Brother Gerard, washing his wound, applying fresh salve, changing his dressings. And always, as day followed day, the young priest seemed to get better and better in health. His eyes became brighter, his cheeks took on a ruddier colour, he joked more and more. The Arab physician, who sailed with them, had smiled and said, ‘If His Eminence, al-Kamil, should ever wish to be rid of you, slave-girl, I will take you on as my apprentice, for it seems that your fingers have a healing magic in them.’
Alys had felt proud at this compliment, though she did not care to be addressed as ‘slave-girl’. Geoffrey had merely laughed for, as yet, it had not fully dawned on him that he, too, was no longer free to ride and hunt as he wished.
And now they were in the courtyard, at Damietta, with the water splashing above them and the late summer sun striking up into their faces from the glazed tiles.
Abu Nazir had been kind to them during the voyage, and had promised that as soon as it could be arranged, he would personally introduce them to al-Kamil, the Egyptian Governor, who might be pleased to employ them in ways suited to their capabilities.
So they awaited the summons, and, as they sat together by the fountain, a troop of Saracen horsemen passed through the courtyard mounted on fine Arab horses which made Geoffrey’s eyes start wide with wonder at their grace of movement and the pride of their bearing.
Jebel Kamal rode at the head of the troop, his hooked nose jutting insolently from beneath his shining helmet, his curved sword lying across his knees. Behind him cantered a score of warriors, bearded and arrogant, their eyes heavy-lidded and contemptuous.
But as the troop passed the fountain, the leader, Jebel Kamal, half-turned his head towards Brother Gerard, and raised his right hand in recognition. Then they passed on, out of sight, beneath a great white archway.
‘That savage has certain admirable qualities,’ said the priest, with a smile.
Geoffrey grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and one of them is the strength to carry you on his back out of danger.’
Brother Gerard flushed, then nodded. ‘That is a debt which I can never repay,’ he said simply. ‘I cannot imagine myself with Jebel Kamal dangling over my shoulder!’
The children laughed at the picture which the priest’s words brought up in their minds; then a yellow-robed official approached them, tapping the tiled pavement importantly with an ivory-headed wand. In perfectly articulated French, he bade them follow him to where al-Kamil awaited them.
Al-Kamil, Governor of Egypt, sat on a pile of silken cushions, contemplating a scroll of parchment. He was a slightly built man, with mild features and large doe-like eyes. His fingers were extraordinarily long and slender, his skin no darker than that of Geoffrey himself.
For a moment or two he surveyed the three friends, stroking his long thin moustaches. Then he said softly, ‘Abu Nazir has spoken well of you and of your family. I need interpreters, teachers and secretaries, folk of decent birth, like yourselves. Their work will be largely in French and in Latin. Are you three competent in those languages?’
Gerard, the priest, said gravely, ‘French is our language, lord. As for Latin, this girl and I are competent; but my young master, Geoffrey of Beauregard, I am afraid, is abler at falconry than at his verbs and declensions! He makes up for this by a knowledge, far surpassing ours, of Provencal songs.’
Al-Kamil glanced searchingly at the priest, then at Geoffrey; then, passing the roll of parchment to the boy, he said, ‘Have the goodness to translate this letter, from Pope Innocent to my Brother, al-Muazzam. You may omit the salutations and begin with the text.’
Geoffrey took the parchment with shaking hands and stared at the crabbed writing. For a moment the black ink letters seemed to swim and merge together. Then the boy blinked and said, ‘Sir, I have no idea what this may be about. If I were a lord in my own castle, I should ring a bell and call my secretary to me. Then he would read this gibberish and tell me, in good honest French, what it was all about.’
With a slight bow he handed back the parchment. For a while al-Kamil looked at the lad, his mouth down at the corners. Then he said, ‘In a way, an honest answer; but, alas, my young friend, you are not a lord in your castle, you are a slave, begging a favour. And even if you were a lord in your castle, it would be a wise and politic thing to be able to read a letter such as this. Suppose your secretary were untrustworthy? You would need to be able to check what he had told you.’
Geoffrey said casually, ‘If my secretary betrayed me, I should have him whipped. That is all there is to it.’
As he spoke, he heard Brother Gerard clucking with annoyance behind him. Then al-Kamil said softly, ‘You are like so many Frenchmen—honest at heart, but stupid. No, my boy, I fear that I cannot employ you as a secretary. You shall be a gardener’s boy, while your sister and the priest here perform more learned tasks. We shall leave for my palace in Cairo tomorrow since Damietta is a little too open to attacks from any stray shipload of Templars with a mind to make nuisances of themselves. Report to Abu Nazir, and obey him in all things. Go, the audience is ended.’