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.
“Men like Warner and d’Aumale have no right to speak ill of John,” he said, scowling.
“True enough,” said Hugh. “But they are only men, and men will inevitably speculate on the manner of John’s death. What was he doing in the Greek quarter in the first place? You must admit, it is curious.”
“I personally find this whole business most worrying,” said Courrances. Geoffrey jumped. He had forgotten that Courrances was with them, and was unaware that he had been listening to his conversation with Roger and Hugh.
“So you said yesterday,” Geoffrey said. Masking his discomfiture, he took a piece of goat from a huge bowl proffered by a servant. He inspected the meat carefully and dropped it back again, sickened by the smell of rancid fat. They had been eating goat for weeks now, even on those religious days when the Church claimed meat was to be avoided. Geoffrey hoped men like Roger, who grabbed the lump Geoffrey had discarded in company with another two that looked worse, would hurry up and finish whatever herd had been cheaply purchased by the citadel cook so they could have something else to eat.
“These deaths are a threat to the very foundation of our rule in this city,” continued Courrances.
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.
“Men like Warner and d’Aumale have no right to speak ill of John,” he said, scowling.
“True enough,” said Hugh. “But they are only men, and men will inevitably speculate on the manner of John’s death. What was he doing in the Greek quarter in the first place? You must admit, it is curious.”
“I personally find this whole business most worrying,” said Courrances. Geoffrey jumped. He had forgotten that Courrances was with them, and was unaware that he had been listening to his conversation with Roger and Hugh.
“So you said yesterday,” Geoffrey said. Masking his discomfiture, he took a piece of goat from a huge bowl proffered by a servant. He inspected the meat carefully and dropped it back again, sickened by the smell of rancid fat. They had been eating goat for weeks now, even on those religious days when the Church claimed meat was to be avoided. Geoffrey hoped men like Roger, who grabbed the lump Geoffrey had discarded in company with another two that looked worse, would hurry up and finish whatever herd had been cheaply purchased by the citadel cook so they could have something else to eat.
“These deaths are a threat to the very foundation of our rule in this city,” continued Courrances.
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