Lord Geoffrey's Fancy Read online

  Before our arrival there had been no serious fighting, though much marching and counter-marching. The Nicene army, led by John Palaeologue, brother to the Nicene Emperor, had pushed far into Wallachia and taken many fortresses; but the Despot Michael had rallied his men, and on the arrival of Manfred's German contingent the Nicenes had retreated in haste. Now they were encamped on the eastern side of the valley, a few miles away but in touch with our outposts. We had come in time for the battle. If we won there would be unravaged country for us to plunder, and perhaps fees for all landless knights. It was the kind of campaign that suited us.

  But nothing is ever quite so good as it seems at first glance. After a pleasant night in camp, passed in comfortable tents provided by the Despot, I strolled over in the morning to have a look at the Germans and their famous armour. They made no difficulty about admitting visitors; and since on that day there was no alarm the armour could be seen displayed on stands. There were back-and-breasts made each from a single piece of metal, joined by straps at shoulder and waist; there were knee-guards and elbow-guards, and curved greaves made all in one piece; commonplace nowadays, though at that time exciting novelties. But the man who showed me round was not quite of the type I had expected.

  I cannot speak German, and few Germans speak French. But I had travelled through Italy and these warriors had held Sicily for King Manfred; so my guide and I could exchange information in elementary Italian, though neither of us was up to polite conversation. He was civil, and eager to be pleasant to an ally; but I could see that he was not a gentleman, and I took it for granted that he must be some kind of superior armourer or groom. Then he showed me a fine suit of armour, better made than most; and made me understand that it was what he would wear in the coming battle, for he was a man of mark in this German contingent.

  I came away depressed. Ring Manfred had sent help to his father-in-law, as he had promised. His men were well armed and well mounted. But they were hired sergeants, without a knight among them. Mind you, I don't despise sergeants. For some operations, holding a tower or scouting in broken country, they are actually more useful than knights, since as a rule they can be trusted to obey orders; a second line of sergeants lends weight to the charge. But sergeants fight for pay, not for glory. No one expects them to hew a way to the enemy banner, or to dispute a lost field. In Romanie Franks are valued for their foolhardy courage, for charging against odds without thought of retreat. If Michael Angelus trusted these Germans to form the spearhead of his attack the spear would never strike home.

  Back in our own camp my spirits rose. Perhaps the Germans were not so good as we had been led to believe, but none the less our army contained brave knights in plenty—the mesnies of Lamorie and Satines and the islands, the whole Frankish chivalry of Romanie. We could put into line more than eight hundred dubbed knights, gentlemen of honour. The great army of Nice, across the valley, containing no soldiers who could stand against us.

  Meanwhile there was a lull in the campaign. For some reason, a sound reason for all I know to the contrary, each side waited to be attacked by the other; perhaps all these light-armed Arnauts and Wallachs are more useful in defending a rampart than in the charge. The idea was that if we waited there long enough John Palaeologue must attack us or lose prestige; he was the brother of the Nicene Emperor, who had honoured him with the high-sounding title of Sebastocrator. The Grifons would despise him if he clung to the defensive against a mere Despot.

  But the Sebastocrator was not yet ready to launch his attack. He was gathering a very great army, and did not attempt to conceal the arrival of his reinforcements. We could see them marching in long columns over the skyline; though we could not see his tents, hidden below a fold of the mountain.

  In the mesnie of Escorta we were quite content to wait. Our wine and pork were lasting out very well, and when there is wine enough no one minds a slight shortage of bread. Sir Geoffrey and the other great lords had brought their pavilions, gaily painted affairs with arms blazoned over the entrance and silken banners flying from the poles. The rest of us were very snug in canvas tents provided by the Despot. Their floors were deeply covered in heather, and cunning Grifon labourers had dug channels to carry off the rain-water. At that height in the mountains the nights were chilly, but by day the sun shone pleasantly from a blue sky. It was a comfortable, well-organised camp. Grifons are clever at that sort of thing.

  Our leaders were always meeting in conference, as is the custom in every Grifon army. Since our plan was already decided, to await attack from the Sebastocrator, I wondered what they had to discuss so earnestly for long hours every day. But Sir Geoffrey was a most approachable, friendly lord, quite willing to talk over state secrets with any of his knights who took the trouble to ask him.

  On the third morning I had a chat with him, as we strolled through the horse-lines after morning stables. Last night there had been a long council of war, interrupted soon after dark by an alarm that the enemy were forming for a night-attack on our camp. We had been called out to saddle up and stand to, and then sent back to our blankets. Naturally, I asked first about the reason for this false alarm.

  "Don't grumble too much, cousin William," he answered, "though I know it can be maddening to haul out a good horse from the picket-line in the middle of the night and watch him cough. I hope your Tom took no harm ? If he is coughing I can let you have some physic, but don't dose him unless you must. We may fight any day now, and a horse never does his best with physic in him."

  "That's kind of you, my lord. But why were we called out? Are these Grifon scouts any good at their job?"

  "Very good indeed, and last night they did right to alarm us. They are clever at creeping close to an enemy camp. Soon after dark they saw movement among the troops of the Sebastocrator, which might have been the beginning of a night-attack. We would have looked very silly if Nicene foot had come scrambling among our tents while we lay in our blankets."

  "I see, my lord. So long as we were not ordered to saddle up for nothing. Good scouts get you out of bed too often, but at least you may sleep sound when they report nothing stirring. What was the Sebastocrator after, marching about in the dark?"

  "Ah, now that's most interesting. I'm glad you asked." Sir Geoffrey chuckled. "There's no secret about what they did, anyone could see it. What it means is a different matter. In the council last night we had quite an argument about it. What do you think, William? Our scouts saw moving torches, and thought it was the Sebastocrator marching out to attack us. Then, after they had quite rightly given the alarm, they looked again and saw it was men marching into the enemy camp, not out of it. Can you make anything of that?"

  "Reinforcements arriving after dark," I answered at once. But Sir Geoffrey turned a quizzical eye on me, and I thought hard before continuing.

  "Yes, well, reinforcements arriving after dark," I muttered. "But if you are on the march when the sun sets you can usually manage without a torch. Your eyes get accustomed to the growing darkness. Anyway, why should reinforcements press on after dark, to arrive exhausted? There isn't any desperate hurry. The Nicenes know we are waiting for them to move, and they need not attack until their army is complete. Perhaps they arranged for the reinforcements to come in after dark, so that we would not know their army had grown? But, in that case, why carry torches?" At last I understood. Very slowly, you may think; but war is a serious business and it is wise to be cautious with bright ideas.

  "Our scouts were right both times?" I suggested. "They saw the same men going out and coming in? The Sebastocrator is trying to frighten us, pretending to be stronger than he is?"n

  "That must be it, cousin William. Since the campaign opened the Nicenes have been trying to frighten our allies, boasting of the might of their invincible army from Asia. It's true they have hired a great many mercenaries, Turks and Hungarians and Pechenegs and perhaps a squadron of Germans in plate armour to cope with our Ghibellines. But the Sebastocrator has over-egged the pudding, as they say in Champagn
e. We know now that some of his reinforcements are bogus. Perhaps they all are. I wish I could convince the council on that point. It's too easy to frighten Grifons, if you give them long enough to look at the danger. They have such confounded vivid imaginations. The Despot's men are getting frightened. As for the Wallachs, they talk as though they had been tricked into joining the wrong side."

  "Is there a right side and a wrong?" I asked. "I thought this was a straight struggle for lordship over a masterless fragment of the old Empire of Romanie."

  "Ah, but madame Melisande was reared in Constantinople.

  You have an unfair advantage over these simple provincials: you are beginning to understand Grifon politics. The Wallachs don't understand politics, but they don't like strangers. In particular they dislike Franks; and there are not so many Franks in the Sebastocrator's army."

  "Nobody likes strangers, my lord. I don't like them myself, and that goes for King Manfred's Germans. But you can't have much of a battle unless you allow strangers to join in. Anyway, in Wallach eyes Grifons must seem as strange as any Frank."

  "Not quite, you know." My lord was serious, and a little worried. "The Grifons have been here always, and they pray at the same altars as Wallachs. Above all, the great merit of Grifons is that they don't make improper advances to respectable Wallach princesses."

  "Good Heavens, are they still brooding over that little affair?" I asked in surprise.

  "They are indeed. I wish it had never happened. That Orsini boy was very foolish, but it was uncle William who really put the lid on it. I suppose I shouldn't blame him. A really effective insult came into his head, and though it might make him a troublesome enemy he couldn't bottle it up. Probably I would have done the same thing in his place. All the same, young John Ducas will never forgive his father for not taking it seriously. As for the Despot's other son, the one born in wedlock, Nicephorus, he's friendly enough to the allies of his father but he's just plain scared of the might of the Nicenes. Our leaders are as quarrelsome, and as distrustful of one another, as if—as if they were Crusaders."

  I laughed. The comparison was as true as it was unkind.

  "Well, never mind," Sir Geoffrey finished. "We have eight hundred Frankish knights in this army, besides those German sergeants. We could beat the Nicenes and the Despot's men together, if they would stand to meet our charge. Now I must be off to another of those everlasting councils. See you later, cousin William."

  I sat down in my tent and wrote to Melisande, telling her that the campaign was not so straightforward as it had appeared in Lamorie, though Sir Geoffrey agreed that the mesnie of Escorta was in no danger. I did not know when I would be home, and I might not get a fee. But food was plentiful and I slept under cover. A de la Roche courier promised to carry my letter to Estives. Afterwards someone going that way would drop it at Nicies or La Cremonie, and from there a draper or grocer would probably take it to Carytena. In Romanie everyone is always writing letters, and travellers are usually willing to carry them.

  That evening, an hour after sunset, all the Wallachs deserted in a body, led by John Ducas. It was done very neatly and quietly, after our horses had been bedded down for the night; the scoundrels were out of reach before we could saddle up and ride after them. Arnaut light horse followed their tracks, even though it was dark; for at first we hoped that they had merely grown tired of the campaign and gone home to their valleys. Soon it was known that they had climbed the opposite hill and entered the camp of the Sebastocrator. At daybreak the remaining leaders met for another council.

  We were worried and excited. Every Frank felt himself to be adrift in an unknown world where anything might happen. If a son could desert his father in the field and ride into the camp of his enemies, then the rocks on the mountain might pick up swords to attack us. More seriously, we could see that the battle would not long be delayed; this treachery must have been several days in the planning, which explained why the Sebastocrator had sat quiet on his hilltop. Now, unless he expected further desertions, he must be ready to attack us. Without waiting for orders, every knight armed himself and saw to the saddling of his horse.

  It was past midday when the council broke up. Sir Geoffrey strode out, grim-faced and stony-eyed. I had never seen him so stern, even when he broke through the hostile line at Mount Caride. A group of us tried to speak to him, clamouring for news; but he pushed through in silence, white-lipped. Then he snapped: "Go away. I can't tell you anything. I have been sworn to secrecy."

  This was so unlike his usual gay comradeship that we fell back feeling snubbed and miserable. I plucked up my courage to follow him to his tent, hoping that perhaps he would make an exception of his cousin. Again he turned and snapped: "It's a secret, I tell you, a sworn secret. A secret even from my kinsmen. One of the foulest secrets that ever burdened the soul of a true knight. I wish I could tell someone, but I can't."

  Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, staring at me. His eyes wrinkled as though with a smile, though his mouth remained set.

  "Don't go right away, cousin William," he said thoughtfully. "I have a secret I may not tell to a living soul. But I'm not a leper, you know, there's no need to keep away from my tent. In fact you might take a look at the tent-pegs. These Grifons have fastened the guy-ropes with a cunning knot I should like to see copied in Escorta. No, don't keep away from my tent, though at present I can't invite you inside."

  I walked slowly to the tent and bent down to examine its pegs, which were in fact very sloppily fastened. I could hear my lord's voice within.

  He spoke slowly and distinctly, at the same time beating on a piece of wood; which can make quite a lot of noise—Grifon priests sometimes use a sounding-board of wood where Latins would ring a bell. I peeped under the tent-flap, and saw him banging at his tent-pole with the butt of a broken lance.

  "Good old tent-pole," he said loudly, "on all my campaigns you have been with me, against Grifons and Esclavons and against my dear uncle William. Now I must leave you to fall into the hands of my enemies. And not only you, old tent-pole. I must also abandon my servants and my muleteers and indeed all my dismounted followers. For that matter some of the knights of my mesnie may be left behind. The leaders of the host have agreed to flee secretly in the middle of the night, from shameful fear and for no other reason. But the camp must be left standing, to deceive the Sebastocrator so that we get a good start. Therefore we may not warn our faithful followers, to whom we are bound by oaths of mutual fealty. The leaders will escape while their followers perish. O my tent-pole, what baseness, what ingratitude, what felony! A good knight should warn his followers of impending danger. But a good knight cannot break his pledged word. Before he revealed the hideous project the Despot bound me with an oath of secrecy. I swore by my hope of salvation never to reveal the decisions of the council to a living soul. But you, my dear tentpole, have no soul; though you are more worthy of Heaven than the Despot or even my uncle William, who has consented to this foul treachery. Therefore to you I may open my heart, lamenting the shame to which I am bound by the oath I swore before the council."

  All this had been spoken in the high, clear, formal voice in which suitors take oath before a lawcourt. Now, without a break in the flow of words, Sir Geoffrey suddenly changed his tone.

  "But if any living man should happen to overhear this lament," he said in the normal friendly voice in which he addressed his knights, "this lament which I speak only to my soulless tent-pole, let him tell his comrades. If all the knights of Romanie would go now, at once, to Prince William, they might be in time to avert the shameful flight."

  As I ran through the encampment I was lucky enough to come across the trumpeter of our mesnie. He was a well-trained sergeant, and I had to draw my sword before I could persuade him to blow the Assembly without orders from Sir Geoffrey. Once the call had been sounded dismounted knights came running from all quarters, mailed and bearing sword and shield. My news spread quickly. Within a few minutes we were all running in a disorderly mob
to the pavilion of the Prince of Lamorie.

  To give Prince William his due, I think he was glad to see us. He was not by nature a felon, and in previous campaigns he had risked his life gallantly enough at the head of his men. I don't know how he had been persuaded to agree to the cowardly plan; perhaps because he understood the Grifon tongue so well that he could be swayed by Grifon eloquence. That happens more often than you might suppose. A Frankish lord can appreciate good verse, but he is never trained to persuade; all Grifons learn rhetoric as one of their earliest lessons. A Grifon who is genuinely in earnest, as the Despot was earnestly set on saving his cowardly skin, can sometimes persuade a simple Frank against his better judgement. After the persuasion came that fearful oath of secrecy. There again the Despot had the advantage. Most Franks shrink from the mortal sin of perjury, no Grifon minds how often he forswears himself.

  So far the Prince had not taken any steps to desert his men.

  Perhaps when the time came he would have stayed with us anyway. Now that we had made up his mind for him there was no question of any lord fleeing without a blow struck. The Orsini and the de la Roches, and all the other great lords who had been bidden to the council, came to the Prince's pavilion and vowed to stay with us to the last. By this time it was the middle of the afternoon, but though we felt hungry we were too excited to go to dinner. We were crowding round the banner of Villehardouin, cheering and shouting and waving our swords, when a groom ran up to say that the Despot was striking camp.

  At least we had spoiled his plan to sneak away in the dark and leave his men behind to get their throats cut. All the Despot's Grifons, and his Germans too, were getting out together without any attempt at concealment. But "striking camp" was a polite name for what they were doing. The foot streamed away to the high peaks where pursuit could not catch them; the better sort were mounting, each with a bundle of valuables at his saddle-bow. They left their tents standing, except that servants helped themselves to any panels made of silk; they left their baggage, and their supplies, and great bundles of arrows that they were too cowardly to shoot at their enemies. A Grifon camp is always better stocked than a Frankish one. There were mounds of barley, sacks of flour, sides of bacon, piles of spare blankets, a pyramid of bulging wineskins. All these were revealed as the cowards fled, and we looked forward to a great feast in the evening. Suddenly Sir Geoffrey pushed through the crowd to seize my arm, and I found myself one of the half-dozen knights he posted, on his own authority, to guard the wine.