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
“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
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