Faithful Dead (13 page)

Geoffroi thought, if they have brought me to my death, then they seem very relaxed and cheerful about it. He remembered the careful hands that had helped him off his horse and decided that it could just be possible that they
weren’t
going to kill him.

But if not, why had they brought him here?

And where exactly was
here
?

Then the man who had come into the tent said, ‘Come. You come with me now. I shall take you.’

Once again he took hold of Geoffroi’s elbow and led him away. Their boots rang out on some hard stone floor, or at least Geoffroi’s did; his companion seemed to be wearing soft-soled shoes. Geoffroi became aware of a scent . . . sweet, slightly spicy, not at all unpleasant . . . and he thought he heard the faint crackling of a fire.

They walked for some time, in darkness, in light, in darkness again. Then they must have emerged from a passage, perhaps, into a larger area, because Geoffroi was suddenly aware of a sense of space around him and a lot of light. He could hear the sound of running water. The sweet smell was stronger now, and slightly different . . . there was a tangy, musky element to it now . . . was it sandalwood?

The man beside him was saying something – a greeting? – and he pushed Geoffroi’s head down so that he bowed.

That was the final indignity.

To be forcibly removed from his tent in the middle of the night with a knife at his throat and taken miles away on a fast, silent-footed horse was one thing. To be marched through long passages with a hood over his head was just about tolerable.

But to be made to bow to someone he couldn’t even see, well, that was too much.

Geoffroi wrenched himself away from the pressure of the man’s hand and stood up tall and proud. In a loud voice he said, ‘Let me see who it is to whom you would have me bow, and judge with my own eyes whether I deem him worthy.’

There was a stunned silence. For a dreadful moment, Geoffroi thought he had gone too far. He could almost hear the soft scrape of a sword drawn from its sheath, the muted whistle as it descended to sever his head from his neck . . .

But then somebody laughed. A rich, happy sound.

And a deep voice said cheerfully, ‘Quite right, sir knight. Why should a valiant man bow to an invisible shadow?’

He must have made some gesture, for immediately the rope binding Geoffroi’s wrists was cut and the hood was taken off his head.

Blinking in the sudden bright light – there must have been thirty or more candles burning in glass lamps – Geoffroi stared around him. He was in a cool, marble hall, with arches along two sides open to the night air, and in the middle of it a fountain played. There was a small fire in some sort of brazier, and the sweet smell seemed to emanate from the soft coils of smoke rising from it.

There were about a dozen people in the hall. Some, standing perfectly still in the shadows, appeared to be servants, or perhaps guards. The two men either side of Geoffroi, dressed in heavy hooded cloaks, must be the pair who had brought him here.

In front of him was a set of pure white marble steps, on top of which stood a divan covered in rich burgundy-coloured cloth. Extending down from the divan and down the centre of the steps was a runner of fine carpet, decorated with a geometric pattern in shades of purple, violet, rich yellow and dark red. Two more servants sat at the foot of the steps. Another stood at the top, beside the divan, holding a tray on which was a brass pot, a tiny cup and a plate containing small titbits of some sort of food.

On the divan, beringed hand extended to take one of the titbits, sat a plump man of perhaps sixty years. His round face under the elaborate, multicoloured headdress was beaming, making his small, dark eyes all but disappear behind the bulges of yellowish flesh around his eyelids. The wide skirts of his garments – made of rich, vivid silk, shining in the candlelight – had been carefully arranged on the divan around him.

He sat quite composed under Geoffroi’s scrutiny for a moment or so. Then, the laughter clearly not far away, he said, ‘Now you see me, sir knight.’ His voice suddenly becoming serious, he said, ‘But, indeed, it is not you who should do honour to me.’

With some effort, he slowly rose to his feet and, to Geoffroi’s amazement, made him a low reverence.

Straightening up and flopping down once more on the divan, he said, ‘I am Mehmed. I have had you brought here to thank you because, this afternoon, you saved the life of my grandson.’

‘Your
grandson
?’

‘Yes. He is a courageous boy, like his father, but sometimes strong-headed. Yes? Is that the word?’

‘Headstrong.’

‘Ah, thank you. Headstrong.’ Mehmed repeated the word a couple of times under his breath, as if committing it to memory.

Geoffroi said carefully – it seemed neither polite nor diplomatic to infer criticism – ‘I was surprised to see a child in the field of battle.’

Mehmed sighed. ‘Ah, sir knight, you ask yourself what sort of a people can we be, what sort of a man am I, to permit a little boy to do a grown man’s job. Yes?’

‘I – well, yes,’ Geoffroi admitted.

‘It was not done with my permission,’ Mehmed said, in a tone of voice that allowed no argument. ‘The child – his name is Azamar, incidentally – the child is disobedient.’ The fat face crinkled into an indulgent smile. ‘But then what spirited child of six is not? Azamar was confined with his mother in the innermost fastness of my house, told –
ordered
– to keep well away from any openings through which a Christian arrow or assault weapon might find him. Yet, so strong was his wish to fight the treacherous Franks, whom we had believed to be our friends, that he slipped away from the vigilance of his mother and her ladies, made his sly way past my servants and my guard, found himself a horse that was far too big for him and rode out to do battle.’

Geoffroi said admiringly, ‘He sounds quite a lad.’

Mehmed nodded. ‘Quite a lad, yes. You must understand his great desire for our family to be seen to have at least one man on the field and I, alas, as you see . . .’ He made a rueful face, extending a hand to indicate his large, unwieldy frame.

‘You said he stole a horse,’ Geoffroi began.

‘He did not
steal
,’ Mehmed rebuked him. ‘The horses in my stable are ever at his disposal.’

Geoffroi was, he realised, going to have to be more careful how he phrased things; this grandfather, clearly, was so besotted with his grandson that, in his eyes, the child could do no wrong. Well, hardly any.

‘He had no horse when I came across him,’ Geoffroi said. ‘He was on the ground.’

‘On the ground.’ Mehmed’s face reflected his pain. ‘Yes, so I have been told. On the ground, a six-year-old child, wounded, concussed, helpless. And a great Frankish knight about to – about to––’ Unable to put such a horror into words, he closed his eyes and waved a fat hand, as if to push away the very thought.

Geoffroi, who could think of nothing to say, kept quiet.

After a while, Mehmed opened his eyes again and fixed them on Geoffroi. ‘You saved him,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘You risked your own life to pick him up out of the path of that fury with the broadsword, and you rode off with him until you found a quiet place where you could treat his wound. Then you rode back with him and left him in the safest place you could think of, right outside the gates of his own city of Damascus.’

‘It wasn’t right outside,’ Geoffroi muttered.

‘Ah, honest as well!’ Mehmed exclaimed. He waved a hand around at the assembled servants, who all echoed, ‘Ah!’ sounding, Geoffroi thought, like the wind in the poplars. ‘But near enough, sir knight, for little Azamar to trot up to the city walls and swiftly be brought inside to safety.’

‘Is he all right?’ Geoffroi asked. ‘That head wound was bleeding profusely.’

‘He is all right, yes. His mother and her nursing woman have tended him, bathed him, fed him, cuddled and coddled him, and now he sleeps.’

‘I am glad of it,’ Geoffroi muttered.

‘
You
are glad?’ Old and fat he might be, but Mehmed had sharp ears. ‘Think, then, how glad
I
must be, for Azamar is the son of my only son, my jewel, who died when the child was two years old.’ Shadows of a great grief crossed the round face and, for a moment, Mehmed put up a hand to shield himself from Geoffroi’s intent stare. Then, recovering, he said quietly, ‘Azamar is all that I have. He would be precious in any event. Under the particular circumstances that apply to my family, he is doubly, trebly, four times precious.’ A soft smile crossed his face. ‘Four times precious,’ he repeated. ‘Yes. I like that.’

There was a short pause. Then, as if remembering his manners, suddenly Mehmed clapped his hands and shouted out a barrage of words in a language quite strange to Geoffroi. At once, three of the servants leapt into action, swiftly rushing to Geoffroi’s side and proffering trays of food, drink and something that looked like cloth, steaming gently and smelling delicious.

At a loss, Geoffroi went to take one of the tiny cups. But the servant, with extreme delicacy, withdrew his tray a fraction, allowing the servant bearing the hot cloths to advance instead. Geoffroi nodded his thanks and took one of the cloths.

But what was he to do with it?

The servant – how subtly attentive they were! – immediately put down his tray, unfolded the tightly-rolled cloth and, holding it out, mimed a quick, neat wiping of face and hands. Understanding at last, Geoffroi took it from him and gave his hands, face and neck a very thorough wash.

There were soft titters from behind him. Mehmed, crushing them with a steely look, said something in his own language. Then, as Geoffroi handed the now filthy cloth back to the servant – he was ashamed of the black dirt; he couldn’t think when he had last bathed – Mehmed said kindly, ‘We are pleased that we may offer you this small service.’ Then he clapped his hands once more, and the food and drink trays were offered again.

Geoffroi only ate a tiny amount – the delicacy was extremely sweet, and in fact made him feel rather sick – but he accepted two cups of the hot, spicy drink. Then, when he had nodded his thanks, the servants withdrew.

He wondered what would happen next.

He wanted, more than anything, to be safely back in his camp. Could he ask to be taken? Or would that break some rigid rule of Turkish hospitality?

Mehmed had clapped his hands again. This time, a servant from the shadowy far side of the hall advanced, bowing low before his master and holding out to him some object, wrapped in soft leather, laid on a velvet cushion.

Geoffroi, embarrassed, hoped very much that it was not going to be some unlikely, unsuitable gift; more of that tooth-rotting sweetmeat, perhaps?

Mehmed beckoned him forwards. He moved to the foot of the marble steps. Mehmed beckoned again; ‘Come closer! I cannot reach you down there!’

Geoffroi did as he was bid.

He watched as the fat fingers unfolded the leather. Whatever was inside was not sweetmeats, that was clear, because, as it caught the light, rays shone out of it like bright stars in the night sky.

Mehmed was holding up a gold chain, from which hung a large, dark-blue stone. Round in shape, and about the size of Mehmed’s thumbnail, it was set in a thick gold coin, the centre of which appeared to have been softened and hollowed out slightly, so as to hold the stone firmly. There was lettering of some sort around the edge of the coin, although Geoffroi could not read it.

Mehmed swung the stone on its chain gently, to and fro, to and fro. Then, in a hypnotic voice, he intoned, ‘Behold the stone that men call the Eye of Jerusalem. Its mystical origins are lost in the past, and it came to my family when we were young and the tally of our days was yet brief.’ He gave the deep blue stone a loving, almost yearning look. ‘It is protector and friend to its rightful owner, keeping him safe from enemies both known and unknown,’ he went on. ‘Dipped in water, it will make a febrifuge that also has the power to stem bleeding. Dipped into a drink proffered by a stranger, it will detect the presence of poison.’

There was a long pause while Mehmed continued to swing the stone and everyone else watched it. Then he said, ‘It was ever told, and the tale passed down from father to son, that the day would come when the Eye of Jerusalem, great treasure of the Mehmeds, would be given in exchange for something that we valued yet more highly. Until this day, we could not imagine what event this tale foretold.’ He sighed again. Then, abruptly shooting out his arm and holding the stone out to Geoffroi, he said, ‘Now we wonder no more. This day you saved my grandson, last male child of my line, and returned him safe to me. He is more valuable than all the sapphires and gold in the world and, in exchange for his life, I must do as long tradition orders me and give to you, sir knight, this precious jewel.’