King of the Middle March (21 page)

T
HREE OF THE FRENCH ENVOYS WHO WENT TO SEE
the Pope to explain why we laid siege to Zara have returned safely. But the fourth, Robert de Boves, broke his oath. He disappeared in Venice, and went aboard a merchant ship and sailed for Syria.

At midday all the church bells in Zara began to ring, and criers walked through the city announcing that the Holy Father greets each of us, and well understands we only laid siege to Zara to hold our great army together. He lifts his sentence of excommunication and absolves us all.

Everyone was so joyful. The same French and Venetians who tried to kill each other embraced and wept. People cheered. The streets bubbled.

But what the criers were shouting out wasn't true! Not even almost true. Lord Stephen has told me on the strict understanding that I don't tell anyone else.

“Milon has shown me the Holy Father's letter,” Lord Stephen said grimly. “Firstly, the Pope says he can scarcely believe his ears. How can we have attacked a Christian city with crucifixes hanging from the walls? He accepts, however, that we did so with great reluctance and only because it was the lesser of two evils.”

“That's true, isn't it?” I asked. “Otherwise, the Doge would have stopped us from using his ships.”

“But the Holy Father is angry that the Doge and his councillors have not asked for his forgiveness.”

“In Saint Mark's,” I said, “the Doge told us it was his right to recapture Zara.”

“The Pope says he has no wish at all to damage our crusade and so he will absolve us—”

“God be praised!” I cried.

“—subject to certain conditions and undertakings,” Lord Stephen continued. “But he will not absolve the Venetians.”

“But that's not what the criers said,” I exclaimed.

“No,” Lord Stephen replied. “Not only have our leaders chosen to suppress the Pope's letter. They've invented a new one.”

“But why?”

“Fear, I suppose. If people knew the truth, they'd be even more discontent. This gives them hope. But there's another thing,” Lord Stephen told me. “In his letter, the Holy Father also said he had received a letter from the Emperor in Constantinople, and he strictly warns the crusaders against becoming involved. He knows we'll need supplies and has written to the Emperor requiring him in the name of Christ to provide them for us.”

“What's going to happen?” I asked.

“Heaven knows!” Lord Stephen replied. “The envoys have been waiting for more than three weeks, and we still haven't made up our minds. Why should our leaders bother to heed the Pope's warning, unless it happens to suit them? They've ignored his letter about the siege of Zara.”

“It's all so muddy,” I said.

“It is,” Lord Stephen replied. “Each day that passes, this crusade is getting into deeper water.”

In the blue hour, Lord Stephen and I walked along the walls, and he began to talk about Holt again. The peacocks. And Wilf clutching and catching the harvest ewe, and falling over backwards. And whether he should have brought in more men from Wigmore to protect the castle while we are away.

I didn't say much at all. I don't think he really wanted me to. He just wanted my company.

But then Lord Stephen turned to me and asked me what I thought I'd learned from him.…

He's more thoughtful, more troubled than he was on Saint Nicholas. He keeps looking back.

Y
OU CAN'T TELL WHAT PEOPLE ARE LIKE BY LOOKING AT
their noses or their ears. Or what they're feeling by looking at their hands. But when you look into their eyes…

Bertie's eyes, darting and daring, and Ygerna's eyes, patient and gazing; Queen Guinevere's, burning, freezing; Tom's, easy and friendly and amused; Sir William's eyes, one bloodshot, one glittering.

I can see that long line of Zarans straggling out through the Land Gate, leaving their homes, and the boy Godard caught, and that woman the Flemish louts assaulted in the forum, and the five Saracens—before their eyes became flames of fire.

I think eyes tell the weather of the spirit.

In the churches here, there are small paintings called icons, and in them Mary and Jesus and the saints and martyrs and patriarchs and virgins all have much larger eyes than in paintings in England or France:

dark almonds lit with inner light,
doe-wide, sometimes wistful,
watchful and designing,
full of longings and long-suffering,
darkling, somehow smudged,
old-young and see-in-the-dark,
secretive, inward.

Byzantine eyes! They're mysterious. Look into them, down deep, and you begin to wonder whether you can understand them at all.

I
TOO HAVE MY ALPHABET OF KNIGHTS,” SAYS SIR LANCELOT
.

He looks to left and right at all the men gathered in the hall.

“Earl Armagnac, Sir Bors, Sir Blamore and Sir Bleoberis, Sir Clegis and Sir Clarrus, Sir Dinas, Earl Estrake, Earl Foix, Sir Galihodin and Sir Galahantine…From my heart, I thank you all for your loyalty, and for sailing with me to France.”

Many of the knights tap the tops of the long tables or slap their thighs as a sign of their support.

“You've heard how King Arthur and Sir Gawain set sail from Cardiff and landed here in Beaune with sixty thousand men,” Sir Lancelot says. “You've heard how the king has appointed Sir Mordred as Regent of England in his absence, and put Queen Guinevere in his care.”

“He will regret that,” says Sir Bors.

“Now today I've been told the king and Sir Gawain have set fire to seven of my manor houses, and burned them to the ground. What are we to do?”

“The longer we delay, the worse things will become,” Sir Bors replies at once.

“This is what I think,” Sir Lionel says. “All our towns have strong walls. Let's have all our country people shelter inside them
and wait until the king's men grow hungry and impatient and start to blow on their fingertips. Then we'll fall on them like wolves on a flock of sheep.”

“In the name of Christ,” says Sir Bors, “let's get amongst them.”

“I'm loath to do that,” Sir Lancelot replies. “They are Christians, and I will not willingly shed Christian blood. War is always evil; it should always be the last resort. I'll send a messenger to my king.”

War is always evil.…

Cardinal Capuano said, “War is violent, war is cruel, war is bloody, but it is natural. It is natural, and peace is unnatural.”

“What,” demands Sir Gawain, “do you propose to do?”

“I cannot think any man has ever been so restrained, so considerate, so honorable,” the king replies quietly.

“Have you come all this way to turn back now? Do that, and everyone on earth will say you're weak. Weak or unwise.”

Arthur-in-the-stone nods. His eyes are wounds. “I will follow your advice,” he says. “I will not make peace with Sir Lancelot. You speak to the messenger; I cannot force my tongue to say the words.”

At once Sir Gawain strides over to the messenger.

“Tell Sir Lancelot it's a waste of time to send offers to my uncle and he's left it too late to make peace. And tell him I, Sir Gawain, will not rest now until I've slain him, or he has slain me.”

Sir Gawain is at the town gate, mounted on Kincaled, fully armed and holding a huge lance.

Sir Lancelot is standing high above him, on the wall, with many of his knights.

“Can you hear me, you traitor?” Sir Gawain shouts. “Why are you hiding like a rabbit in its burrow? For day after day, I've fought one of your men. I've wounded Sir Bors. I've wounded Sir Lionel. Are you afraid of me?”

All around him, Sir Lancelot hears voices.

“Sir Lancelot! Now!…He's mad with fury.…Stop his mouth with mud.…Defend your honor.…”

“Come down, you traitor!” Sir Gawain shouts. “Pay with your blood for killing my brothers!”

Now King Arthur trots up alongside Sir Gawain.

“My king!” Sir Lancelot calls down. “My king! I could have fought you long since. For six months I've been patient. But now Sir Gawain is accusing me of treason. I've no wish to fight you, but he keeps goading me like a beast at bay.”

“Babble!” Sir Gawain shouts. “If you dare fight me, come down now.”

I can see Sir Lancelot and many of his men riding through the town gate. Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain say nothing. Side by side they lead the way to a common not far outside the walls, and trot to opposite ends of it.

They couch their lances. They raise their shields. They shout and spur their horses, and loosen their reins.

Their armor rattles; leather groans and creaks; the hooves of the horses pound the ground.

These two men the king loves more than any others. These men who once were dearest friends.

Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain both drive their lances into the middle of the other's shield. They draw their swords. They land
such heavy blows that the legs of their horses give way, and they collapse.

Each hour before noon, Sir Gawain grows as strong as a giant, and Sir Lancelot can do nothing but shield himself. Sir Gawain slices his shield into pieces; he cuts notches in Sir Lancelot's sword until it's as jagged as Bertie's teeth, and dents his helmet and bruises his brains.…

But at noon Sir Gawain's strength begins to ebb. He's no more than himself again.

“Now!” gasps Sir Lancelot. “Now it's my turn.”

At once Sir Lancelot gives Sir Gawain such a swipe on the side of his head that he reels sideways and falls over. Blood streams over his face. Sir Lancelot stands motionless.

“Kill me and have done with it!” pants Sir Gawain. “You traitor! If you spare me, I'll fight you again.”

“You're wounded,” Sir Lancelot replies. “I'll never kill a man who cannot defend himself.”

Slowly he turns away from Sir Gawain and stumbles towards his horse.

Sir Gawain wipes the blood from his eyes. He tries to get to his feet.…

Sir Gawain is at the town gate again, mounted on Kincaled, fully armed and holding a huge lance.

“Can you hear me, you traitor?” he shouts. “I am Sir Gawain. Come out! Come and fight!”

“Jesus help me if ever I'm at your mercy as you were at mine,” Sir Lancelot calls down. “That would be the end of me.”

Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain ride towards one another in a roll of thunder.

Sir Gawain's lance shatters into one hundred pieces, but Sir Lancelot hits the middle of the shield with such force that Kincaled rears up and throws Sir Gawain.

Sir Gawain jumps back to avoid Kincaled, and draws his sword eagerly.

“Dismount!” he yells. “My mare may have failed me, but this son of a king and queen will not fail you.”

Again, Sir Gawain grows as strong as a giant. Sir Lancelot weaves and crouches and ducks and leans sideways and backwards. He saves his wind; he saves his skin. And each time he fends off a stroke, Sir Gawain becomes a little more discouraged.

“It's noon!” shouts Sir Lancelot. “You are strong, Sir Gawain. But you've done your best, and now I'll do mine.”

Sir Lancelot's sword pricks and caresses Sir Gawain's armor. It whispers to it. It shaves and slices it. Sir Gawain does all he can to guard himself, but now Sir Lancelot whirls his sword and smacks Sir Gawain on the side of his head, right on the place where he was wounded before.

Sir Gawain's knees buckle and look in opposite directions. He staggers and sinks to the ground, unconscious. When at last he opens his eyes again, and blinks the blood out of them, he sees Sir Lancelot standing right over him.

“You traitor!” Sir Gawain mumbles. “You haven't killed me yet. Come on! Have done with it.”

“I'll fight you when you're able to stand on your feet, and your wound has healed,” Sir Lancelot replies, “but I'll never strike a man
who is already wounded. God save me from such shame. There are ways a knight may fight, and ways he must never fight.”

Slowly Sir Lancelot turns away and stumbles towards his horse.

“You traitor!” Sir Gawain calls after him. “As soon as I can, I'll fight you again. I will never rest until one of us lies slain.”

T
HE FRENCH FOOT SOLDIERS MAY BELIEVE THE POPE
has lifted his sentence of excommunication, but they're still discontent: They're complaining half the food supplied by the Venetians has gone rotten, and they object to hanging around here for another ten weeks.

But worse, some of them have actually deserted. Simona bundled into the tower-house this morning and told us that in the middle of the night a number of men from Poitiers—enough to subdue the crew—crept aboard a Venetian galley and untied her moorings.

There was nothing the crew could do because they were outnumbered and unarmed, and although some Venetians onshore were woken by the shouting, there was nothing they could do either. They stood on the quay and watched the dark shape drifting down the channel, and listened to the Frenchmen yelling, “Row! Row, damn you! Row or drown!”

Three Venetian sailors did end up in the water, and they couldn't swim. No one knows whether they were pushed, or tripped in the dark, or jumped and hoped someone would rescue them.

Simona says there may have been as many as one hundred Poitevins. But where will they go? Will they ever get there? In any case, they've got away. And one of our ships is gone.

The news about the deserters has troubled us all. Lord Stephen
keeps blinking and clucking and Turold is leathery and Rhys is restless and Serle's in a temper.

“Poitevins!” Sir William proclaimed. “Cowards from the cradle! This crusade's got a curse on it.”

I keep thinking our tower is about to topple. Before long, there's going to be a storm.