All Things Are Lights – Day 190 of 200

“I suspected as much,” she whispered. “You are not loyal to him at all. You are his enemy.”

“Nicolette has been talking to you, has she not? I tried to be your husband’s friend, but he would not listen to me. If he had, we would not be here. And as for you, if you had attended to me instead of to my wife, you would be out of danger now.” He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the brat’s wailing.

“Because I did not listen to you, we are about to ransom my husband and his companions. Then we will all be out of danger. And you may be sure he will hear how you have spoken of him this day.”

She lifted her chin, straining her skinny neck. She must suppose she was giving him a regal look.

Amalric stood, his chest heaving against his coat of mail. The silly fool! I could shatter her right now, tell her she will never see her husband alive.

No, better not. It may be hours before I hear from the Sultan, and in that time she could do me harm. Those damnable Templars!

Still, I no longer need to pretend I respect her or her witless husband.

“Say what you like to Louis,” he said with deliberate discourtesy. “I care not.”

Marguerite gasped, outraged, but at that moment someone hammered on the oaken door.

Amalric turned, the mail skirt of his hauberk swirling heavily around his knees, and went to the door.

“Monseigneur,” said a guard, panting. “A messenger has come from the Saracens.”

The guard now was one in Amalric’s pay. No more than a boy, he had for armament a long carving knife stuck in a dirty silk sash at his belt. Before Amalric hired him, he had been a cook’s helper for one of the barons killed at Mansura.

Amalric’s heart warmed with delight. He drew in a huge, deep breath. At last, at last! Thank God!

“Where is he?”

“A Saracen boat brought him to the landing by the west gate. He showed a message with the Sultan’s seal and we let him in. He is coming to the palace on foot. I ran ahead to tell you.”

“Bring him to me at once!” Marguerite called from her bed, her voice shrill with anxiety.

“Yes, of course,” said Amalric. “Excuse me, Madame.” With a curt bow he strode out the door, pushing the guard aside.

“Stand you here,” Amalric said in a low voice after closing the door firmly behind him. “See that no one enters. Or leaves.” He jerked his head at the door. “You must keep her in there.”

“But, Monseigneur, how do I stop the Queen if she wants to go out?” asked the boy, wide-eyed.

Amalric reached into a leather scrip at his belt and took out a key. Quietly, he locked the bedroom door and dropped the key back into the pouch. He congratulated himself on his forethought in ordering Sire Geoffrey de Burgh to relinquish his duties at the palace and to turn over the key to him a few days ago. Through the door he could still hear the baby crying.

“There. Now you can just tell her that in truth you are unable to let her out. Or make no reply at all if she calls to you.”

He paused, realizing that the young guard was staring at him dumbfounded. The boy would not be willing to hold the Queen of France prisoner without some justification.

“It is only to protect her,” Amalric explained. “She is in poor health from her recent childbirth, and the city will soon be full of Saracens. She is headstrong and must be kept from endangering herself. You know how it is with women.”

Amalric gave the boy a man-to-man clap on the shoulder that brought a glow of pride to his young eyes.

He felt a quivering in his chest and a hollowness in his stomach as he hurried through the corridors of the palace. What will the Sultan’s messenger say? The mail he wore felt light as silk as he rushed down the stairs. Great God, take my side in this. Let Louis be dead. For Hugues, for my father, for all the wrongs we Gobignons have suffered. Give us the victory, God.

But why was the Sultan’s man coming on foot? Why the devil could he not have ridden? Why must I be kept waiting an instant longer?

He passed through the audience chamber, where some of his men were gathered, along with a little cluster of priests in black soutaines. They were talking excitedly to one another, falling silent as he walked by. They have heard the news, he thought, and are wondering what it portends. Well, soon enough they will know.

He felt a sudden pain in his chest. Priests would be slaughtered today, along with ladies and knights. He, Amalric de Gobignon, good son of the Church, would have brought it about. But at least they will all die martyrs’ deaths and go straight to Heaven.

Still, he avoided the eyes of those he passed.

Giving his arms a shake to settle the mail on his shoulders, Amalric strode out the palace door. At the foot of the steps stood his big, dark charger, tethered under guard.

Amalric hurried down and handed his helmet to the guard. He drew the hood of his coat of mail over his head and laced it tight around his face and neck. Best be well protected — you cannot trust the Saracens. Then he took back the conical steel helmet adorned with its wolf’s head and donned it. He undid his battle-ax from his belt where it hung beside the basilard and slung it from the saddle. He put a foot in the stirrup as one of his men held the horse for him, and sprang up.

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