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.’
8
‘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.