Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

She gazed at him in disbelief. “You could have done that yesterday,” she said, once she had regained her composure. “Instead, you chose to hustle me away, cause the death of three of my neighbours, and bring about a riot.”

Geoffrey looked away. She had a point. “May I ask my questions now?”

“You may not!” she spat. “You did not believe me yesterday, and I have no wish to convince you today. Ask Lord Tancred, for I spoke with him at length. And ask the Patriarch, another with whom I conversed long and hard.”

“I would rather hear what you have to say from yourself,” said Geoffrey.

At his side, Roger gave a warning cough, and Geoffrey saw that people were beginning to gather in the street. He cursed himself for a fool. He should have anticipated the woman’s welcome would be far from friendly, and brought a larger force. The dog, sensing the menace in the air, began a low whining, and Geoffrey wondered how he had managed to acquire an animal to whom cowardice came so naturally. It slunk against the side of the building and rolled its eyes pathetically.

“This could get nasty,” muttered Roger, fingering the hilt of his sword but not drawing it. “I wonder whether Courrances will ride by and rescue you a second time.”

Geoffrey glanced behind him and saw that the crowd was beginning to edge closer. Unlike the day before, he and his men numbered only four, and this time none had bows. The crowd, growing by the moment, was already upward of thirty, and many carried weapons. The riot of the previous day, when those who were unarmed had been killed, had obviously been a bitter lesson, and they were now better prepared for their second encounter with the hated Crusaders.

Geoffrey turned back to Melisende, his mind racing. “Would you have us cut down on your doorstep?”

She shrugged. “You were quite happy to condemn me to the Patriarch’s dungeons, and to believe I was the murderer of that poor knight. Why should I be sorry to have my revenge?”

They would find no mercy there. Geoffrey turned from her and drew his sword as the mob drew closer. His colleagues followed suit and drew theirs, standing in a line and preparing to sell their lives dearly. At least it is better than being trampled by Courrances’s destrier, Geoffrey thought irrelevantly. He took a deep breath and faced the crowd steadily.

Stop!” Melisende’s voice cut clearly through the ominous silence preceding the fight that was about to begin. “There has been enough killing here already.”

“And it was all his fault,” cried a man with a long, curly beard pointing at Geoffrey. “He deserves to die.”

“So he might,” replied Melisende. “But he is likely to take you with him. And more of your family and friends. He is a Norman knight and far more skilled at fighting than you. He may even escape and leave you dead behind him.”

There was a mutter of consternation among the people, and a hurried exchange of views.

“We will let the other three go if he stays,” said the man with the beard, indicating Geoffrey.

Melisende looked at Geoffrey and raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question. He considered for a moment and then nodded at the bearded man. The chances of the four of them surviving an attack by the mob were not significantly greater than him alone, but if Geoffrey could keep them occupied, Roger might have sufficient time to fetch help from the citadel. Next to him, Roger, Helbye, and Fletcher, understanding nothing of the exchange in Greek, looked bewildered.

“Go,” said Geoffrey to them. “They will not harm you. Fetch help from the citadel.”

“Are you staying?” asked Roger, confused. “Will she talk to you?”

“Yes, but not with you here. Go.”

Roger shook his head. “Oh, no! I do not like this at all, lad. I do not trust her or them. As soon as we are gone, they will turn on you like savages.”

Geoffrey squeezed his shoulder. “They will not. I can keep them talking while you fetch help.”

“You are a dreadful liar, Geoff,” said Roger, standing firm. “I will not leave without you.”

“Well, she will not talk to me as long as you are here. Take Helbye and Fletcher and go. Bring Hugh with the men who are practising in the bailey.”

Reluctantly, Roger let his sword drop, and he motioned to the others to put away their weapons. Fletcher and Helbye exchanged a look of mutual incomprehension, and lowered their swords, although they certainly had no intention of sheathing them.

Melisende eyed Geoffrey in amazement. “You know they will kill you,” she said in Greek. “You must have been walking in the heat too long.”

“Let the others go,” said Geoffrey to the bearded man. “I will stay.”

The bearded man nodded agreement, and Geoffrey gave Roger a shove to set him on his way. Unhappily, Roger began to walk, Fletcher and Helbye following, white-faced but steady. The dog looked at Geoffrey, seemed to hesitate, and then, sensing which option was safest, slunk after the others. The crowd parted to let them through. Geoffrey watched until they had rounded the corner, and turned to face the people, sword at the ready. Perhaps he was destined to be torn apart by a mob after all.

The crowd was still, regarding him silently. He stared back at them, and found that most were unable to meet his eyes. He felt sweat coursing down his back as the sun blazed down, and wondered how he might distract them for sufficient time to allow Roger to dash to the citadel for reinforcements. But already the hostility emanating from the crowd had lessened, and here and there, people had put their weapons away. Geoffrey wondered why. He was alone and surely could not present that formidable a target.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked of the bearded man.

“We must stop this,” the man said, so softly that Geoffrey thought he had misheard. He turned to the people around him. “Go home. This is not how we behave. We are not Crusaders!”

For a moment, nothing happened, and then an old lady at the front turned and began to walk back up the street. The sound of a door closing after her was as loud as a clap of thunder in the following silence. Then the bearded man pushed through the crowd and walked away. Others followed, some gratefully relieved that trouble had been averted, and others clearly disappointed in their plans for revenge. It was not long before Geoffrey stood alone in the empty street.

“You were lucky, Norman!” said Melisende behind him, leaning up against the doorjamb and folding her arms. “You should be thankful these are God-fearing people and not like the unholy rabble you call knights, or you would be dead by now.”

Geoffrey swallowed, and felt a weakness in his knees. He wondered whether he would have the strength to find Roger before the large Englishman descended on the street with all the fury the citadel could muster. He was surprised to find his hands were unsteady, something that seldom happened, even after the most bloody of battles.

“You are in no danger now,” she said, indicating the deserted street with a nod of her head. “You can leave.”

“Will you answer my questions first?” he asked.

She put her hands on her hips and gazed at him in disbelief, before letting out a great peal of laughter. Geoffrey felt the unsteadiness in his limbs begin to recede as irritation took over.

“You are incorrigible!” she said. “You are delivered from the jaws of death by a whisker, and you persist in pursuing the very path that led you there in the first place. Very well. What do you want to know?”

It took a moment for Geoffrey to bring his mind back to the business at hand, and he thrust his hands through the slits in the sides of his surcoat lest their trembling should reveal to Melisende how shaken he was. He took a couple of steps away from her, so that anyone still watching him from the dispersed crowd could not misconstrue their conversation for one that might be considered threatening.