in the last century. A fundraising drive for the holy cause.” His voice dropped. “I do not greatly approve of the means, but the end is undeniably just.”
Savaric’s eyes shone. “We will carry the relics of the great King Arthur before us, symbolic of the struggle between the goodness of Christendom and the wicked heathen. With your help, word will spread. We will set up a stage in every major town. My cousin and I will preach and conduct mass. You and your players will demonstrate with action what the common folk cannot comprehend in words. We shall be trumpeted by angels, hymned by choirs, welcomed by all, and we shall leave laden with funds for the king’s war effort and the parole of thousands to take the cross.” With his hands planted on the table, he added, in a false-whisper, “And, of course, where crowds gather, there is always the potential for … shall we say … a little extra trade?”
I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “Thievery?” Thebishop, at least, had the grace to look shame-faced, though maybe that was just a trick of the candlelight.
“A little light-fingered byplay wouldn’t be frowned on. You and your troupe will, in addition, be paid a generous stipend for your work.”
The Moor detached himself from the wall. “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a share of the takings.” He grinned, wolfish. “A fraction, agreed between us.” He smoothed out a sheet of vellum on the table, picked up a quill, rattled it in the inkpot on the desk and sketched a swift mathematical working. “If
x
represents the total sum of money taken on the day in offerings, donations, tithing … and other means, and
y
is the expense incurred in laying on the show—the cost of travel, servants, accommodation, repast, materials, and other sundries …”
As they haggled, my mind drifted. This morning I had been calculating my chances of surviving a hanging; now I was being offered a part in an ecclesiastical fraud inspired by the very fakery for which I’d been arrested. It was hard to get my head around.
“Stop!” I said abruptly, and the room fell silent. “I haven’t yet said I’ll do it.”
They all stared at me. A walking dead man throwing away his only chance of survival?
“This venture. It’s big, complicated, expensive … and dangerous. Why would you entrust such a thing to people like us?”
Bishop Reginald leaned forward. “We need your expertise—”
“The expertise of liars and thieves?” I laughed. “I’d have thought you had plenty of that on tap. What is religion, when all is said and done, but smoke and tricks?”
The bishop looked uncomfortable. “What we do, we do for the greater good of the Church.”
“So you would connive with one of the very Saracens against whom you would take up arms?”
The Moor raised an eyebrow, then said, “I’ve been called many things in my time: Arab, Berber or ‘barbari,’ as the Romans termed it, and now, incorrectly, a Saracen. I am just a man, John, like any other. This is a good offer. Our paths run parallel for a time at least. We lose nothing by doing this, and could gain much.”
I made a show of mulling it over, but really, what choice did I have? “All right, then,” I said. “I’ll be a part of your mumming-show.”
The bones of the accord were agreed to; I left the details to the Moor and applied myself to the roast chicken that was brought to me from the kitchens. Then I pulled my stool up to the fire, took off my boots, wriggled my toes and allowed a little bliss to steal over me.
I must have dozed, for suddenly there was a hand on my shoulder and someone was saying, “Come along, John. Time to go back now.”
Groggy with sleep and wine, I groaned. “Back?”
“To your cell, as if you had never been away.”
“I’m not going back—”
“
Habibi
, it’s necessary.”
The bishop smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I’m very much afraid, Master Savage, that you
Savaric’s eyes shone. “We will carry the relics of the great King Arthur before us, symbolic of the struggle between the goodness of Christendom and the wicked heathen. With your help, word will spread. We will set up a stage in every major town. My cousin and I will preach and conduct mass. You and your players will demonstrate with action what the common folk cannot comprehend in words. We shall be trumpeted by angels, hymned by choirs, welcomed by all, and we shall leave laden with funds for the king’s war effort and the parole of thousands to take the cross.” With his hands planted on the table, he added, in a false-whisper, “And, of course, where crowds gather, there is always the potential for … shall we say … a little extra trade?”
I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “Thievery?” Thebishop, at least, had the grace to look shame-faced, though maybe that was just a trick of the candlelight.
“A little light-fingered byplay wouldn’t be frowned on. You and your troupe will, in addition, be paid a generous stipend for your work.”
The Moor detached himself from the wall. “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a share of the takings.” He grinned, wolfish. “A fraction, agreed between us.” He smoothed out a sheet of vellum on the table, picked up a quill, rattled it in the inkpot on the desk and sketched a swift mathematical working. “If
x
represents the total sum of money taken on the day in offerings, donations, tithing … and other means, and
y
is the expense incurred in laying on the show—the cost of travel, servants, accommodation, repast, materials, and other sundries …”
As they haggled, my mind drifted. This morning I had been calculating my chances of surviving a hanging; now I was being offered a part in an ecclesiastical fraud inspired by the very fakery for which I’d been arrested. It was hard to get my head around.
“Stop!” I said abruptly, and the room fell silent. “I haven’t yet said I’ll do it.”
They all stared at me. A walking dead man throwing away his only chance of survival?
“This venture. It’s big, complicated, expensive … and dangerous. Why would you entrust such a thing to people like us?”
Bishop Reginald leaned forward. “We need your expertise—”
“The expertise of liars and thieves?” I laughed. “I’d have thought you had plenty of that on tap. What is religion, when all is said and done, but smoke and tricks?”
The bishop looked uncomfortable. “What we do, we do for the greater good of the Church.”
“So you would connive with one of the very Saracens against whom you would take up arms?”
The Moor raised an eyebrow, then said, “I’ve been called many things in my time: Arab, Berber or ‘barbari,’ as the Romans termed it, and now, incorrectly, a Saracen. I am just a man, John, like any other. This is a good offer. Our paths run parallel for a time at least. We lose nothing by doing this, and could gain much.”
I made a show of mulling it over, but really, what choice did I have? “All right, then,” I said. “I’ll be a part of your mumming-show.”
The bones of the accord were agreed to; I left the details to the Moor and applied myself to the roast chicken that was brought to me from the kitchens. Then I pulled my stool up to the fire, took off my boots, wriggled my toes and allowed a little bliss to steal over me.
I must have dozed, for suddenly there was a hand on my shoulder and someone was saying, “Come along, John. Time to go back now.”
Groggy with sleep and wine, I groaned. “Back?”
“To your cell, as if you had never been away.”
“I’m not going back—”
“
Habibi
, it’s necessary.”
The bishop smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I’m very much afraid, Master Savage, that you
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