Pillars of Light (25 page)

Red Will, that’s who.

“No decent woman would let you lay a finger on her!”

“It ain’t his finger he’s got in mind!”

“Aye, it’s a bit bigger than a finger, Will No-Dick. Warn’t that what Mary called you?” Quickfinger’s mobile, expressive face twisted into a sneer.

“You aren’t fit to speak her name!”

“I done a lot more than speak her name, little boy, and she would moan mine, over and over.
Oh, Enoch, ooh Enoch, yes, yes. More, oh yes, you’re so big, Enoch!
”

Will’s move took him by surprise. The ginger head hit him right in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He went down in a heap, and Will kicked him viciously with every ounce of his hatred. There was danger of real damage. Tempting though it was to let Will take his revenge, Hammer and Saw and I hauled him off and held him till he stopped struggling.

Quickfinger got to his feet with difficulty. Clearly Will’s heavy boots had found their mark. Despite being the troupe’s joker, Quickfinger didn’t like to look a fool except by his own design, and the look on his face was one that promised a violent reckoning in a dark back alley.

“You two, I want you to keep an eye on Will,” I told Hammer and Saw. “Don’t let him out of your sight once you’re ashore, right? And keep him away from Quickfinger.”

They looked at one another and shared one of their silent twin communications. “We ain’t shepherds,” Hammer said mutinously.

“And I’m no lamb.” Will was furious.

“Savaric has charged me with keeping you lot out of trouble. You’re his men now and he’s got a reputation to uphold.” The Moor would have given me a sardonic look. I felt like some sort of lickspittle.

In the end I needn’t have worried, since Savaric himself appeared to instruct us as to our conduct ashore, telling us that if we thieved we’d be tarred and feathered, and that if we got into a fight he’d leave us to the local authorities. Kill one of our own on land and we’d get tied to the victim and buried alive with him.

“Fuck that,” said Quickfinger, not really under his breath. “I ain’t getting tied to one of your stinking corpses.”

“Better kill a nice clean noble, then,” someone chuckled.

Savaric roared for quiet. “Don’t insult the local women, they’re keen on their honour here, and their menfolk will take you apart. If you must go with a whore, treat her properly and pay the price
she asks, because I am not coming to bail you out of gaol. And if you catch the pox, that’s your own lookout too. Any man coming back on board showing signs of disease will get thrown in the sea. Remember that you’re wearing the de Bohun livery, and that we are on holy business, and that if you sin having taken the cross, God’s balance will weigh such sin twice over.”

I looked around at the faces of his retinue. Most were men bred to do as they were told: servants and peasants, sons of servants and peasants. Then there were the mummers, the dregs of England, people who didn’t fit in anywhere and didn’t like being told what to do. There was a distinct difference between the two groups: the first were attentive; the others shuffled, making faces at one another. I could see there was going to be trouble once we were on dry land.

Of the rest of the retinue, apart from the guards Savaric had taken on, there was a falconer, a keeper of armour (paid purely to keep it clean and polished), a horse-caparisoner, a steward, a dresser and three body-servants. Ever determined to put on a good show, Savaric had paid as much attention to his turnout as to the matter of war. “People take you at your own valuation, John,” he’d confided to me as we made our way from London to Dartmouth to begin our passage. “Appearances are important. If you don’t look as if you take yourself seriously, why should anyone else?” He’d patted the big ruby he always wore. “People see this and take me as a man of means, an important man with enough money to waste on a bauble I can afford to lose at sea or at war.”

“But you are a man of means.”

“It’s all a matter of degree.” He fingered the gold chain around his neck and I remembered him breaking the ‘ruby’ on it open in Rye as he renounced his sins.

“Well, it’s a lot more means than I’ll ever see.”

“This chain is probably the most valuable thing I’ll ever own.” He shrugged. “The stone’s just a piece of glass that I got in Venice.
Clever fellows, those Venetians. They know the value of artifice. It’ll come in handy if I ever get taken prisoner. A perfect ransom, right here, around my neck.”

“Aren’t you afraid someone will try to steal it?”

“Let them try. Makes it seem even more valuable if they do. And if they do, well, I’ve got you lot to keep me safe.”

Another fakery, I thought. A bit of glass posing as a priceless jewel and a bodyguard of ne’er-do-wells and thieves.

Perfect.

At the docks were merchants and sailors from a dozen countries, all speaking different languages. A group of local men—and women—were mending nets and packing pilchards into barrels. Take away the foreign chatter and the vibrant colour of their clothing and we might have been in Cornwall.

After two months at sea none of us could walk properly. My knees had become unreliable; it was as if the whole world was on the move beneath me. Others amongst the crew were more seasoned sailors; they strode past with barely a wobble, eager to be the first to avail themselves of the fleshpots of Lisbon. Quickfinger attached himself to a contingent of them, having learned the words for “whore” and “whorehouse” in French, Portuguese and Spanish, just to make sure. Little Ned staggered after them.

I pushed Hammer and Saw towards Red Will. “Remember what we agreed.”

Hammer stared despairingly at the backs of the men disappearing through the crowd.

“I’m sure there’s more than one whorehouse.” I sighed.

Saw took Will by the arm. “Tavern first.”

“Not going with them … Ezra?” Savaric winked.

She grinned. “I could murder an ale.”

“I thought we’d walk up to the castle.”

“We?”

“You two are my bodyguards with the rest gone off to soak themselves in sin.”

Up through the steep winding streets we went, past women hanging their washing out to dry and gossiping. They watched us come and some whisked the corners of their headscarves over their faces so that only their glittering eyes were visible. As we passed they fell quiet, their expressions assessing. Savaric made the sign of the cross—acting like a churchman—and uttered a benediction, and at once they were piety personified, heads dipped in prayer.

Up at the castle, squadrons of soldiers marched in and out, guards in shining armour at the gate. In the chilly shadows under those towering walls the fortress looked less benevolent than it had with the sun shining on it, from the sea. It was built with massive blocks of stone, impregnable.

“Now that’s what I call a castle,” Savaric declared. “Strategic position, too, superb vantage point. You could hold a place like this against any enemy.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” The newcomer, a sturdy man, speaking French, pronounced his name
Robairrr
, Robert de Sable, come from France for the muster. Dark hair shot through with silver, tufts of white in his beard, white crow’s feet around the eyes. He was well but not flashily dressed. Still, there was something arrogant about him, unpleasant. Maybe it was just me, disliking Frenchmen.

“It was taken back from the infidel forty years ago in a three-month siege during the Reconquista.”

This was a word I was unfamiliar with, but Savaric seemed impressed. “You appear to know a good deal about the history of the place.”

The man smiled, showing sharp dog-teeth. “My grandfather was one of those who fought to win it back. The Muslims had a
stranglehold over the whole peninsula, spreading their lies and poison, but God sent a storm to drive the fleet of Christian knights on their way to the Holy Land in to Porto for repair. And there, the King of Portugal convinced them to help him retake Lisbon. Ah, yes, God took a hand in events that day.” He crossed himself and we all obediently muttered “All praise to the Lord.” Ezra looked at me, out of sight of Savaric and the newcomer, and rolled her eyes.

“What people don’t understand about sieges is that it’s not all about the castle walls,” Robert continued. “They look at a fortress like this and think it can’t be taken. But you can have the strongest fortress in the world and if its defenders do not have the strength of God in their hearts, they do not have the ‘… something …’ to hold it against besiegers with God on their side.”

“
Volonté
—what does that mean?” I asked, and they both turned to stare at me, a commoner interrupting two nobles.

“The will,” Savaric supplied, glaring.

“If the defenders don’t have the will to maintain a siege they’ll capitulate. They lost heart, the Muslims who tried to hold this castle. They’re like that, the Muslims: shake their confidence and you break their will. And once they have lost hope they are yours.” He closed his fist as if crushing a fly within it.

The merchants’ houses in this city appeared plain on the outside—nothing but mud walls and sturdy, iron-hasped doors—but they opened onto courtyards alive with running water and cascades of bright flowers from galleries where birds sang and bees buzzed. Savaric was given quarters in one such, and his chosen retinue was billeted with him. It was like a palace to me. The sound of the water tumbling from the little fountain at the heart of the courtyard reminded me of the streams by which the Moor and I had slept on the Saints’ Way after leaving the priory.

“You look like a child, asleep, John,” he’d told me. I’d near bit his head off, shouting “I’m no child!” It had taken time to understand he was putting into words the peculiar familiarity between us: sleeping out in the open in his company felt a thousand times safer than the confines of a monastery dormitory.

The constancy of the little fountain smoothed the rough edges off my tumbling thoughts—till Savaric’s voice boomed out. “Put your best clothes on, John, we are going to church!”

Best clothes? Did he think I had five chests of outfits, like him, and a dresser to array me? I put on my livery, though it was rather the worse for wear.

He looked me up and down. “That won’t do. Come with me.”

His “dresser,” an ample Welshman with a bald head and a wicked tongue, took one look at me and declared, “Silk purse time, eh?” then delved into one of the huge cedar chests and came out with a cloak of midnight blue, trimmed at hem and facings with silver. This he whipped about my shoulders with a practised gesture. “And this should hide most of the rats’ nest,” he declared, slapping a cap on my head to tame my springy black hair. “Better, boyo?” he asked, though not to me.

“Much better.” Savaric nodded his satisfaction.

A moment later Ezra joined us, neatly turned out as usual. Women have that knack, even when they’re being men. The dresser gave a little sly smile and I sensed he knew exactly what she was.

The church was like no other I’d seen, except in my visions. I stared about in wonder. Tall pillars in rows, each pillar meeting the next in a graceful, pointed arch. Light streamed in from all sides.

I looked around, and I was not the only one enchanted, for everywhere I looked, other men had their faces tipped up to the soaring vaults when they should have been turned down in contemplation and prayer.

I found myself wondering, had Saracens built this place? Or if
not Saracens, the Moor’s Babas? Like the house with the courtyard, I’d have sworn it was built by no Christian, but daily we were told the Saracen was a monster, savage and ignorant, as dark of heart as he was of skin, fit only to be slaughtered like an animal. How could such soulless creatures have constructed something so wondrous?

We were all quiet as we came out into the bright sun and baking heat after mass. Savaric, Ezra and I walked down into the central square where we took watered wine, warm bread and honey at a table outside a baker’s and watched the world go past, still wrapped in the serenity of the church. I slumped on the bench and thrust my legs out, tilting my head back, my eyes slitted against the hot light, and wondered how I might contrive to stay there forever, to slip away when the warships put to sea again, to melt into the shadows of the narrow streets, to spend my days like one of the feral cats that begged so slyly in the square, cadging food from strangers.

Then a shadow fell over me. I opened my eyes and there was a man, bending low to speak into Savaric’s ear. He was brown-skinned and dark-eyed, dressed in colours too bright for an Englishman: definitely foreign. Savaric leaned forward, intent. I saw Ezra jump to her feet, knife in hand, but our master motioned for her to sit down. “It’s fine, all fine. No need for that.”

Savaric drained his wine swiftly, licked his lips, then got up, all in a hurry, as if some bargain had been struck. “Come on,” he said, and strode off with us, following through the crowds after the dark man. In an alleyway a band of brown-skinned children tagged along behind us, begging in different languages for money. I chased them off, roaring like a lion, which pleased them mightily.

We moved into a quarter full of stalls selling produce. Our guide dived down an alleyway so fast we nearly lost him. There were little windows high up over the alley, grilled with curled iron, movement behind them, someone looking out; sometimes a white hand,
beckoning. Ezra caught my sleeve and, “Whores,” she mouthed, and rolled her eyes.

Savaric turned to us. “Not much for you here, Ezra. But will you stand guard at the door, just in case? John, you come in with me.”

“It’s all right,” I said quickly. “I’ll stay outside with Ezra.”

“Nonsense. Men have needs.” He grinned. “Come on, lad, don’t dawdle—my treat.”

And so I entered my first whorehouse. It was obscure inside, corners lit by candles, cheap ones; their smoke had blackened the walls and ceilings and there was a strong whiff of animal fat, even though there was incense burning in a brazier trying to mask that and other more unsavoury smells. As my eyes adjusted I could see four women lounging on couches, wearing slips of cloth that didn’t cover much.