Geoffrey, Roger, and Hugh found places near the head of the nearest table and helped themselves to watered wine, overripe figs, and hard bread. Two of the Advocate’s knights came and settled opposite them: Warner de Gray and Henri d’Aumale, both of whom Geoffrey loathed almost as much as he did the cunning Hospitaller Courrances. Geoffrey stifled a sigh and began to discuss the sword drill planned for that afternoon with Hugh. Meanwhile, Warner began to describe an encounter he had had the day before with a small group of Arabs who had ambushed his scouting party. Geoffrey tried to ignore him, but Warner’s voice was strident, and he and Hugh were eventually forced to abandon their own discussion.
When Warner saw he had an audience, he began to elaborate. In many ways, he looked like his cousin the Advocate: both were tall, well-built, and fair-haired. But whereas the Advocate was a thoughtful man and, rumour had it, religious, Warner was brash and arrogant, and he encouraged a lawlessness among his knights that Geoffrey found reprehensible.
“How many of those Saracens were there?” asked Roger, interested as ever in matters military.
“Ten,” responded Warner. “Each one armed with a great scimitar and holding a golden idol of Mohammed in the air as they attacked.”
Geoffrey stared at him with undisguised dislike. “Moslems do not make idols of Mohammed,” he said disdainfully. “They consider it blasphemous.”
Warner turned to him with a look of loathing that equalled Geoffrey’s own. “I am not conducting a theological debate on Mohammedanism. I am describing an encounter in which I was forced to fight for my life against a band of Saracen fanatics intent on butchering me,” he said haughtily.
“No soldier so intent would impair his fighting skills by holding an idol aloft,” persisted Geoffrey. “That would be foolish. The whole scene you describe sounds most unlikely.”
He felt Hugh’s warning hand on his arm, while Roger unsheathed his dagger and casually used it to hack a lump of stale bread from a loaf on the table.
“Are you suggesting I lie?” asked Warner, the colour draining from his face. Around them, conversations began to die away as nearby knights watched the scene with interest. The Advocate’s men moved to one side of the table, while Bohemond’s and Tancred’s moved to the other, anticipating a fight. It would not be the first-nor the last-time that the knights of rival factions pitted themselves against each other. The Advocate, who would certainly prevent such unseemly brawling among his men, was in deep conversation with his brother on the dais, and the noise from the other tables was sufficient to drown out any sounds of disturbance.
“I am suggesting that your description rings false,” said Geoffrey, fully aware that he might start an incident that could end in bloodshed, but angered by Warner’s ridiculous assertions. “Moslems do not have idols of Mohammed, and no intelligent soldier would willingly use an arm in such a pointless gesture when he would be better to use it to fight.”
Warner began to rise to his feet, white-lipped with fury, his hand reaching for the dagger that hung in a sheath from his belt. But before he could draw it, Edouard de Courrances was behind him, both hands pressing down on Warner’s shoulders.
“Sit, Sir Warner,” he said softly. “I am sure the story of your ambush yesterday cannot yet be fully told.”
“There is more?” enquired Hugh drolly. “And us so well entertained by his story already!”
The ironic emphasis on the word “story” almost brought Warner to his feet again, but Courrances’s hands on his shoulders were firm, and he subsided. The Hospitaller soldier-monk bent to whisper something in Warner’s ear, which was heard with a glittering malice, and then sat next to him on the bench. Geoffrey regarded him coldly.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company today?” asked Hugh blithely, voicing the question in everyone’s mind as to why Courrances had forgone his usual place on the dais near the Advocate to sit with mere knights.
“I am a monk,” said Courrances with mock humility. “I cannot bear to see signs of friction within the ranks of God’s knights. I am here in His name to keep His peace.”
Roger snorted loudly, and there were sarcastic sniggers from Bohemond’s men. One or two of the Advocate’s knights came to their feet, but sat again at a glance from Courrances. Geoffrey was impressed at the power of this man, who purported to be a monk, but even now wore the broadsword that the other knights were forbidden to bring into the hall because of past outbreaks of violence. Daggers had been banned too, but this had quickly proved impractical because of the tough nature of most of the food.
“Any further news of the monk-Loukas-who died yesterday after you and I killed those rioters in the Greek Quarter?” Courrances asked Geoffrey casually. But Geoffrey caught a glitter in his eyes that suggested more than a passing interest. So that was it, Geoffrey thought. He thinks to pump me for information about the murders that Tancred believes threaten the security of the Holy City.
He shrugged noncommittally and accepted a rock-hard chunk of week-old bread from Roger. “None that you have not heard already, I am sure,” he replied.
“I heard that John of Sourdeval and a monk were dispatched yesterday,” said d’Aumale, with what Geoffrey thought verged on malicious glee. “One in the house of a harlot, and the other in a church. That makes five murders now.”
Geoffrey gritted his teeth, unsurprised but resentful, that John’s death should be a source of gossip for men like Warner and d’Aumale.
“John was not in a brothel,” he said to d’Aumale, his voice cold. “He was in the house of a widow in the Greek quarter.”
“Oh! A widow!” exclaimed d’Aumale, with a wink at Warner. “That makes it perfectly respectable!”
“Now you listen here,” began Roger angrily, not fully understanding the irony in d’Aumale’s words, but guessing some slur was being cast on John’s reputation.
“Sir Warner, Sir Henri,” said Hugh gently. “Our friend is dead, and we grieve for him. Can you not respect our mourning? Do not sully his memory. John was a good man.”
Warner and d’Aumale exchanged glances but stood to leave. Warner gave Geoffrey a curt nod before heading off to join the Advocate, on the dais. Geoffrey, seeing a fight had been averted after all, sighed and replaced his dagger in its sheath. Gradually, sensing Courrances had successfully averted a skirmish between Geoffrey and Warner in which everyone else would have joined, men began to drift away. Soon, only Courrances, Geoffrey, Hugh, and Roger were left.
“Be easy, Geoffrey,” said Hugh in a low voice. “Warner has hated you ever since you revealed him for a fool over that business with the Bedouins. He would love to fight you-and kill you.”
“He was on the verge of murdering a handful of children!” retorted Geoffrey, still angry. “Quite apart from the question of ethics-fully armed knights slaying children is not the most chivalrous of acts-it would have been foolish in the extreme. The Bedouin would have dogged our every step through the desert until they found an opportunity to slit our throats as we slept.”
“I know, I know,” said Hugh soothingly. “No one here doubts that the position you took was the correct one-from the tactical point of view, if not the ethical. And that is precisely why Warner loathes you so.”
“Aye, lad,” put in Roger. “You made him look like a brainless butcher. Which he is, of course!” he roared with laughter. Geoffrey did not join in.