but it shouldn’t kill me, not right away, won’t break the neck. Saw it happen to a man hanged in Market Jew: they cut him down after half an hour, more dead than alive, wry-necked as a half-strangled chicken and making a wretched noise, but even so, he was alive. They had to give him a royal pardon. That’s what they do here, see, if you survive a hanging.” I was gabbling with bravado, but I couldn’t stop. “Just make sure the hangman knows what he’s doing, and give him only a bit of the money up front. Show him the rest, right? To encourage him. If you’re still my friend you’ll do this one thing for me. You are still my friend, aren’t you?”
There was a long silence. Then he began to laugh, a rich sound that filled the cell and the corridor beyond, until I was sure the guards would come running. “Ah,
habibi
,” he said. “I love you as a brother. More than a brother. But sometimes I think you are quite mad.”
I found myself laughing, too. The Moor had this power, a sort of glamour that touched everything. He radiated confidence and grace. It was the utter sincerity in that dark, solemn face that made him such a fine liar—the sort of liar you loved even as he beguiled you.
Now he said, “Do you want to save your own life, John Savage?”
Was the question a trick? I nodded.
The Moor’s grin widened. “I have a proposition for you.”
I had the feeling this might be worse than a hanging.
In the dead of night I was removed from my cell, transported across town in a covered wagon and led into a luxurious room where three men waited.
There were tapestries on every wall, brass sconces, rich carpets, many books—it was a veritable palace. I turned to one of the three men: it was the Moor, dressed head to toe in scarlet. Gave him a sarcastic nod. “Cardinal.” Then, to the man sitting at the table, “Bishop.” Reginald de Bohun, purple robes and sheep’s-wool hair. We had met before.
The man standing by the fire had stout shoulders and a fleshy face. The red veins of his nose spoke of too much good wine (and indeed a large goblet was in his hand), but the mouth was full and loose and generous, made for smiling rather than scowling. He was not smiling now. He regarded me with an intent interest that made me uncomfortable.
“My cousin, Savaric de Bohun, sometimes called Fitzgoldwin,” the bishop said briskly. He motioned for me to take a seat: a wooden stool. “This gentleman tells me you are prepared to participate in our plan.”
I stared, incredulous, at the Moor, who looked back blandly.
Savaric took a swig of wine. “So, John Savage, time to throw the dice.” His cousin tutted, but Savaric took no notice. “I apologize for the secrecy, but for now it’s necessary. Let me get straight to the nub of the matter. Jerusalem has fallen to the heathen horde. War will be declared upon the Saracen. The heads of state across the Holy Roman Empire must act to recover what is lost. Already Prince Richard has taken the cross, and others will follow him: an army will be assembled to go to war in the Holy Land. But thisis no easy thing, nor cheap, either. Soldiers must be enlisted and trained; funds must be raised. Many men; lots of funds. War is a costly business.
“Your … exploits between Cornwall and Glastonbury interest me.”
I could feel the Moor watching me, as enigmatic as a cat.
“That sort of artistry and invention is just what we need in a new venture I have in mind. Between us, we can save Jerusalem and our own souls.” Savaric strode forward. “We need you to create the spectacle to end all spectacles, and take it on the road.” As he said this he thumped his goblet on the table and flung his arms wide so that the gold chain he wore bounced, the vast ruby hanging from it flashing in the candlelight.
“What manner of spectacle?” I asked. “And to what end, exactly?”
“
Negotium crucis
, the business of the cross,” the bishop said. “Like Pope Urban’s tour
There was a long silence. Then he began to laugh, a rich sound that filled the cell and the corridor beyond, until I was sure the guards would come running. “Ah,
habibi
,” he said. “I love you as a brother. More than a brother. But sometimes I think you are quite mad.”
I found myself laughing, too. The Moor had this power, a sort of glamour that touched everything. He radiated confidence and grace. It was the utter sincerity in that dark, solemn face that made him such a fine liar—the sort of liar you loved even as he beguiled you.
Now he said, “Do you want to save your own life, John Savage?”
Was the question a trick? I nodded.
The Moor’s grin widened. “I have a proposition for you.”
I had the feeling this might be worse than a hanging.
In the dead of night I was removed from my cell, transported across town in a covered wagon and led into a luxurious room where three men waited.
There were tapestries on every wall, brass sconces, rich carpets, many books—it was a veritable palace. I turned to one of the three men: it was the Moor, dressed head to toe in scarlet. Gave him a sarcastic nod. “Cardinal.” Then, to the man sitting at the table, “Bishop.” Reginald de Bohun, purple robes and sheep’s-wool hair. We had met before.
The man standing by the fire had stout shoulders and a fleshy face. The red veins of his nose spoke of too much good wine (and indeed a large goblet was in his hand), but the mouth was full and loose and generous, made for smiling rather than scowling. He was not smiling now. He regarded me with an intent interest that made me uncomfortable.
“My cousin, Savaric de Bohun, sometimes called Fitzgoldwin,” the bishop said briskly. He motioned for me to take a seat: a wooden stool. “This gentleman tells me you are prepared to participate in our plan.”
I stared, incredulous, at the Moor, who looked back blandly.
Savaric took a swig of wine. “So, John Savage, time to throw the dice.” His cousin tutted, but Savaric took no notice. “I apologize for the secrecy, but for now it’s necessary. Let me get straight to the nub of the matter. Jerusalem has fallen to the heathen horde. War will be declared upon the Saracen. The heads of state across the Holy Roman Empire must act to recover what is lost. Already Prince Richard has taken the cross, and others will follow him: an army will be assembled to go to war in the Holy Land. But thisis no easy thing, nor cheap, either. Soldiers must be enlisted and trained; funds must be raised. Many men; lots of funds. War is a costly business.
“Your … exploits between Cornwall and Glastonbury interest me.”
I could feel the Moor watching me, as enigmatic as a cat.
“That sort of artistry and invention is just what we need in a new venture I have in mind. Between us, we can save Jerusalem and our own souls.” Savaric strode forward. “We need you to create the spectacle to end all spectacles, and take it on the road.” As he said this he thumped his goblet on the table and flung his arms wide so that the gold chain he wore bounced, the vast ruby hanging from it flashing in the candlelight.
“What manner of spectacle?” I asked. “And to what end, exactly?”
“
Negotium crucis
, the business of the cross,” the bishop said. “Like Pope Urban’s tour
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