Knights of the Cross

fewer than those who died of thirst that day. I had thought little of them.

‘What kind of master was he?’

The boy sniffed, and wiped his nose with the wool. It smeared black oil over his cheek. ‘Fair. He rarely punished me when I did not deserve it. Sometimes he gave me food, when he could spare it.’

‘Did he have enemies?’

‘No.’

‘Who else sleeps in this tent?’

Did I imagine it, or did the shadow under the hem of the tent move? The boy, who had his back to it, shifted on the mattress and twisted the sword’s hilt in his hands.

‘Three companions of my master.’

‘Servants?’

‘Knights.’

‘Their names?’

‘Quino, Odard and—’

The snapping of canvas broke off the boy’s words, and we all three turned to look at the figure standing in the open door. I could see little more than his silhouette, a black form against the grey light outside. He stank of horse sweat.

‘Whelp!’ he barked, affecting not to notice Sigurd or me. ‘My mount has waited for your grooming for half an hour. If she has grown sores, or gone lame, I will visit her afflictions on you tenfold.’ He stepped into the room, and let his stare sweep across us. ‘Who are these?’

‘Demetrios Askiates,’ I told him. ‘I—’

‘Hah. A Greek. Tell me, Demetrios Askiates, what should I think when I find two Greeks alone in a tent with a boy?’

‘One Greek,’ growled Sigurd, unhelpfully. ‘And a Varangian from England.’

‘A Varangian from England,’ mimicked the knight. ‘A race named for a tribe of catamite slaves. You and the Greeks have the same black soul, and your vices are legendary.’ He turned back to the boy. ‘Get out and see to my horse, or I will whip you into the Orontes.’

‘I have not finished with Simon,’ I said. ‘Nor have you told me your name.’

‘Nor do you deserve to hear it.’ The knight had come further into the tent now, and as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could make out more of his appearance. He was neither tall nor broad, but there was a lean strength in his body that a larger man would have done well to beware. His movements were quick and unpredictable, his limbs twitching all the while, and his face was lined well beyond his apparent youth. I did not think he smiled often.

‘You serve the lord Bohemond?’ I asked.

‘I do.’

‘Bohemond has charged me to discover how the knight Drogo came to die.’

I barely saw him move, but suddenly his eyes were very close to mine. His sour breath fanned my face.

‘Even my lord Bohemond can err in his judgement. Or perhaps he believes that the Greek who found my brother Drogo, alone and isolated, may indeed have personal knowledge of how he was murdered.’

‘Drogo was your brother?’ I asked, astonished.

‘As a brother. We shared a tent, our hardships, our food and our prayers. When his natural brother died he turned to us as his family.’ He stepped back, his spurs dragging scars into the mud floor. ‘But that is no matter for you. Leave my tent, you and your pederast friend, before I avenge Drogo’s death on you both.’

Thus far, Sigurd had kept calm under the knight’s provocation, but he controlled himself no longer. Grasping his axe by its head, he swept the haft like a scythe at the Norman’s knees, meaning to knock them from under him. But the knight was faster: his sword swung before him and parried the blow, biting deep into the wood of the axe- haft. Both their arms must have stung from the impact, yet for a moment they held their weapons clasped together, unbending, each staring into the other’s eyes. Then they pulled free.

‘Next time it will be your neck that tastes this sword,’ the knight hissed. He was breathing hard.

‘Next time, I will break your blade in two and force it down your throat.’

I pulled at Sigurd’s arm. Behind us, I could see the boy hunched over with terror on the bed. It tore at my conscience to leave him with the knight, but I feared worse would befall all of us if we stayed.

‘We should leave.’

Outside the tent the air was hard, and I narrowed my eyes against the sudden light. I had no wish to linger any longer in the Norman camp, for the knight’s anger at us was no more than most of his countrymen felt, but the sight of an old man sitting cross-legged in the doorway of the tent opposite spurred me to one last effort. Sigurd and I crossed to greet him, and I pulled a bloodied bundle wrapped in cloth from the pouch at my belt. I had intended it to encourage the boy, but perhaps I could make it tell elsewhere.

‘The knight who just entered that tent, who was he?’ I let the bundle dangle from my hand.

The man leaned closer and sniffed at the package. ‘Quino.’

I remembered the name, for the boy had spoken it. ‘He was a companion of Drogo?’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘As was . . .’ I searched for the foreign name. ‘Odard?’

‘Yes.’

‘And there was another, also?’

‘Rainauld. A Provencal.’ The old man did not hide his scorn of the foreigner, nor his hunger for what I held.

I did not ask why a Provencal had lived in the Norman camp. Poverty and death had severed many bonds of allegiance, as those who survived flocked to whichever banner offered most hope of reward.

‘Were there other servants, besides the boy Simon?’

‘None who outlived the winter.’

I unknotted the bundle and showed its contents. It was the liver from a hare which one of Sigurd’s men had snared in the night, its fresh blood soaking through the wrapping. Though it was no larger than a nut, the man gazed on it as if it were a full roasted boar.

‘What else can you tell me of Drogo? What company did he keep?’

‘Little.’ The man shuffled back a little as though the smell of the meat was too great a temptation. ‘He was always with one or other of the men from his tent – and rarely with any others. Sometimes one of the captains would visit; sometimes Drogo bought goods from the Ishmaelite traders. Few others.’

‘Did he have any enemies?’

‘Neither friends nor enemies.’

‘And women?’

The man sucked in his cheeks and swallowed, as if there were too much spit in his mouth. ‘One woman, yes. A Provencal. I did not know her. She dressed always in white – a white robe and a white shawl about her head. Her name was Sarah.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because she announced herself at his tent. I heard her. Though whatever business she had inside, she kept quiet about that,’ he added, wiggling the end of his tongue between his lips.

‘When did you see her last?’

‘Yesterday afternoon.’

The answer stopped me short. Long years of habit had already trained my thoughts in certain directions, and the possibility of a woman’s involvement was prominent among them. That one should have called at Drogo’s tent scant hours before he died . . .

I let the liver drop into the old man’s hand. ‘Did they leave together?’

‘No.’ All his attention was clearly fixed on the meat in his palm, his eyes moonlike in wonder, but the answer was confident enough. As he noticed me staring at him, he added: ‘I saw her go before him, perhaps half an hour.’

‘And when he left, was he armed?’

‘No. No armour at all. Nor his sword.’