Odard stamped his foot, squelching it in the damp earth. I feared the shock might break his stick of a leg. ‘Rainauld is not here. He has not come back these two nights.’
‘Two nights?’ Suddenly, my mind was awash with suspicion. ‘Not since Drogo’s death.’
‘Perhaps he wanders witless with grief. Perhaps he has gone to Saint Simeon for food. Perhaps he has returned to his kinsmen in the Provencal camp. Seek him there, if you must.’
In council, Count Raymond had been one of the few princes to speak in defence of Tatikios and the Emperor, but the enthusiasm did not extend to his Provencal army. Everywhere I turned among the endless rows of tents, his followers seemed to delight in refusing me. Some pretended not to understand my efforts at their language, for even among the Franks their dialect was considered outlandish, but I could see in their eyes that they understood me. Others directed me falsely, often to the mute or blind, while most just looked away when I spoke of Sarah or Rainauld.
Throughout the fruitless afternoon, my mood worsened. Rain started to fall again and I cursed myself for having attempted the errand with neither guide nor cloak. I tried to believe that sufficient time would eventually yield something, but as the hours wore on and the mud climbed up my legs I made no headway.
Eventually, in a forlorn corner of the camp near the river, something found me. I had been sent there by my last informant, who swore that a woman named Sarah lived there, but it was merely another ruse to mock me. There were few tents, none occupied, and by the smell in the air I guessed it was where the Provencals made their latrine. The river bank had been gouged out with the tracks of men and beasts going down to drink or defecate, and the ground was soggy with the rising melt water. I almost lost a boot in the mire. Glad at least of the solitude, I spent a couple of minutes watching the traffic on the road on the far bank. The men and horses were barely two hundred yards away, yet the green waters of the Orontes between us could have been an ocean.
I turned to go back, and stopped. The soft earth had hushed their footsteps, and they had approached to within a stone’s throw: five knights, swords hanging at their sides, unsmiling. They had spread out into a loose line before me, so that I could run nowhere save into the fast-flowing torrent of the river. I dropped my hand to my belt and fumbled for the knife that Sigurd had given me, but it would avail nothing against armed knights.
They halted a little distance away and eyed me grimly. ‘Demetrios Askiates?’ their leader challenged.
I tried to meet his gaze, though his eyes were in shadow under his helmet. ‘I am Demetrios.’
‘My lord the Count of Saint-Gilles will speak with you.’
As befitted the richest man in the army, Count Raymond had not spent the winter shivering in a leaky tent. He had made his billet in an abandoned farm in the midst of his camp, where the council had been held the night before. It was a crude building, its rubble walls bound with timber, but its roof tiles must have been sound enough. A thick plume of woodsmoke rose from the chimney, sharpening the air.
We crossed the courtyard formed by the house and the barn, threading our way between the grooms, heralds, horses and soldiers who thronged it. Two guards with long spears flanked the door, but they did not delay me. I ducked under the lintel, grateful to have relief from the rain outside, and found a stool in the dim room within. Tables and benches were pushed back against the walls, and the floor was covered with mouldering reeds. In the corner a fire hissed and crackled, though there were so many servants and petitioners gathered in the room that we could probably have warmed it ourselves.
After some minutes a scribe emerged from behind and oak door. All in the room fell silent and tensed themselves in hope as his gaze skimmed the assembled faces. I wondered whether he could distinguish one dirty, dark-haired, bearded face from another but his look settled on me and an arm reached out. ‘You. Come.’
The inner room was much the same size as the first, though it seemed at least twice as spacious simply by its emptiness. On a wooden bed in one corner sat Bishop Adhemar in his red cap and cope; behind a table, staring at him with his single, unyielding eye was Count Raymond. He neither stood nor offered me a seat, but contented himself with a grunt.
‘My men found you.’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘Hah! More than they manage with the Turks. One of their spies broke into our camp and drove away seven horses last night. Many more and we will have to
‘Your garrison in the new tower will deter them,’ suggested the Bishop. He made me uneasy, for I did not know what to expect from a prelate of the Latin church, yet his manner was calm, almost gentle.
‘Little will deter the Turks while they see how feeble we are.’ Raymond stood, and walked to a small window in the wall. Through it I could see the sheer slopes of Mount Silpius rising to the clouds. ‘Doubtless the thieves will be back tomorrow dressed as merchants, to sell our own beasts back to us and observe our strength. Wine?’
I was slow to realise that he was offering the drink to me, and fumbled my words trying to accept too hastily. His face twitched with impatience, unbalancing my thoughts still further, and it was only once a servant had brought two cups that I began to settle. The wine was warm, and I gulped it like a camel. It had been many months since I had enjoyed such luxury.
‘Sit,’ said Raymond. There were no other seats, so I had to perch on an unsteady leather saddle beside the door.
‘You are working for Bohemond. He wishes you to discover who killed the Norman Drogo.’
I could not tell if these were questions or accusations. I answered with an indistinct murmur.
‘Do you know why he would have you do this?’ The count stroked a finger over his cheek. Almost uniquely among the Franks, he had continued to shave throughout the siege, but he often allowed his beard to grow as far as a silvered stubble, as though iron sprouted from his very skin. ‘Do you guess his purpose?’
The eye fixed me with a hostile stare.
‘I . . . He is keen that there should be no unanswered crimes to fester among the army,’ I stammered, clenching my hand about the cup.
‘Of course. Bohemond’s care for the unity of the army is well known. Doubtless you noticed it at the council last night.’
‘I . . .’
‘He would see the armies united under a single general. Whom do you suppose he intends?’
I struggled for an answer that would not draw contempt, but the count sneered at my delay and continued unchecked. ‘The mightiest?’ Raymond thumped a fist against his chest. ‘The holiest?’ He pointed to the Bishop ‘No. That Norman upstart, whose own father deemed him unworthy of the least inheritance, would subordinate the armies of the greatest lords in Christendom to his ambition. And why?’
‘The better to prosecute our war against the Turks?’ I hazarded, sinking under the onslaught of his bile.
He pushed himself out of his chair and leaned forward across the table. ‘If you believe that, Master Greek, then Drogo’s killer can indeed sleep peacefully. Bohemond is a brigand, a pirate like his bastard ancestors. He has already tried to seize your country; when that failed, he rebelled against his own brother.’ He gestured to the window. ‘Look out there. An impregnable city, a fertile valley, a port at the mouth of the river and command of the spice roads east. Who would not want this for his kingdom?’
‘Would you?’ I asked. It was an unthought response, and I regretted it the moment I said it, yet its temerity seemed to provoke some spark of respect in Raymond. He seated himself, and waved the servant to splash more wine into my cup. When he spoke again, it was with more restraint.
‘I am master of thirteen counties, Duke of Narbonne and Marquis of Provence. In my own country I am Caesar, and I have earned my due: now I am willing to render the Lord God His. Of course I would covet Antioch for myself, but I do not forget the oath I swore to your Emperor to return the lands that are rightfully his. I will not dishonour my oath while I wear the Lord’s cross.’
The bishop, who had attended our conversation in silence, now stirred. ‘Bohemond swore the same oath.’
Raymond snorted. ‘And you trust him? To Bohemond, oaths are mere vessels for his ambition.’
‘There is still Tatikios to watch him,’ I said.
Whatever regard I had earned from Raymond vanished. ‘How many men does your eunuch have? A thousand? Half that?’
‘Three hundred,’ I admitted.
‘Bohemond has ten times that number. And there would be more than just his army to oppose you. The men of Flanders, Normandy, and Lorraine would stand beside him – even among my own Provencals, your Emperor is not well-loved.’
