and a Provençal woman. A dangerous union.’ He swept his arm in a circle around us. ‘You have seen tonight how fragile our allegiances are. The death of Drogo cannot be another wedge between us.’
Having witnessed the distrust, intrigue and venom in the tent, I doubted it would make much difference.
ς
It was the next afternoon before my duties allowed me to seek the woman Sarah. As the path to the Provençal camp took me through the Norman lines, I risked a second visit to Drogo’s tent. Sigurd and his men were working at the tower that day, but the need to know more of the dead man’s companions drove me to attempt it alone.
The skeletal man still sat cross-legged opposite, the mud pressed smooth under his legs. He might never have moved since the previous morning, though he waved a ragged arm in greeting as I passed.
‘Is Quino there?’ I asked.
The old man shook his head.
I tried to resurrect the other names in my mind. ‘Rainauld?’
He was not, but I must have spoken more loudly than I intended, for suddenly a voice behind me demanded: ‘Who asks for Rainauld?’
‘Demetrios Askiates, on behalf of the Lord Bohemond.’
The man who stood in the doorway of the tent seemed vaguely familiar – he had been with Quino at the cave, I thought, when they had reclaimed Drogo’s body. Lying dazed on the floor I had not marked his appearance; even now there was something about him which seemed to shrink from observation. His legs were thin as a crow’s, his arms little better, but it seemed to be the form of nature rather than starvation, for the rest of his body was as slight, bony and frail. Only the ebony black of his hair showed any evidence of health.
‘You are the man who stole Drogo’s body.’ His voice was shrill, accusing.
‘I am the man who would find Drogo’s killer. Who are you?’
‘Odard. A friend of Drogo.’
It seemed that I had not wasted my time coming here. I chose to be direct. ‘Is there any man whom you suspect of his murder?’
He recoiled a little and glanced over his shoulder. His movements were as quick and graceless as Quino’s, but while the larger man insinuated unpredictable strength this Odard showed only anxiety.
‘Drogo was a strong knight, and pious. It would have taken a mighty enemy to overcome him.’
‘He had neither sword nor armour. Who were his enemies?’
Odard wove his fingers together and pressed them into his stomach. ‘Drogo was much loved. Only a Turk would have done such a thing.’
‘But I believe he knew his killer. Was it a rival? An envious neighbour? A friend?’
Odard shook his head despairingly. ‘None. None of them.’ He sounded close to weeping, though my questions were mild enough.
‘Do you know who killed him?’ I persisted.
‘No! Quino and I were building the tower by the bridge all that day. Only when we returned to the camp did I hear the rumours, that a company of Greeks had been seen with his body. I did not believe it until the lord Bohemond confirmed it – and when I saw the corpse in the cave.’
I knelt down and drew the ‘S’, the barbarian sigma, in the mud. ‘Does this sign mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What of a cross carved in Drogo’s back? Did you make the cut?’
‘No.’ Odard had wrapped his arms around himself in a feeble embrace, and rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘No.’
‘But you had seen it. You cannot have shared his tent so long without noticing it.’
‘I had seen it.’
‘Why did he disfigure himself so?’
‘Drogo was a man of exceptional piety. He sought to know God in all His works, and to prove his devotion to the Lord. It is written: “Peace He brings through the blood of His cross.”’
‘Then perhaps he has found peace now. Did a woman named Sarah ever visit your tent?’
The question prompted fresh turmoil in Odard’s expression. As if he had suffered a blow, he staggered back a few steps, then almost fell on the ground as he collided with a
Having witnessed the distrust, intrigue and venom in the tent, I doubted it would make much difference.
ς
It was the next afternoon before my duties allowed me to seek the woman Sarah. As the path to the Provençal camp took me through the Norman lines, I risked a second visit to Drogo’s tent. Sigurd and his men were working at the tower that day, but the need to know more of the dead man’s companions drove me to attempt it alone.
The skeletal man still sat cross-legged opposite, the mud pressed smooth under his legs. He might never have moved since the previous morning, though he waved a ragged arm in greeting as I passed.
‘Is Quino there?’ I asked.
The old man shook his head.
I tried to resurrect the other names in my mind. ‘Rainauld?’
He was not, but I must have spoken more loudly than I intended, for suddenly a voice behind me demanded: ‘Who asks for Rainauld?’
‘Demetrios Askiates, on behalf of the Lord Bohemond.’
The man who stood in the doorway of the tent seemed vaguely familiar – he had been with Quino at the cave, I thought, when they had reclaimed Drogo’s body. Lying dazed on the floor I had not marked his appearance; even now there was something about him which seemed to shrink from observation. His legs were thin as a crow’s, his arms little better, but it seemed to be the form of nature rather than starvation, for the rest of his body was as slight, bony and frail. Only the ebony black of his hair showed any evidence of health.
‘You are the man who stole Drogo’s body.’ His voice was shrill, accusing.
‘I am the man who would find Drogo’s killer. Who are you?’
‘Odard. A friend of Drogo.’
It seemed that I had not wasted my time coming here. I chose to be direct. ‘Is there any man whom you suspect of his murder?’
He recoiled a little and glanced over his shoulder. His movements were as quick and graceless as Quino’s, but while the larger man insinuated unpredictable strength this Odard showed only anxiety.
‘Drogo was a strong knight, and pious. It would have taken a mighty enemy to overcome him.’
‘He had neither sword nor armour. Who were his enemies?’
Odard wove his fingers together and pressed them into his stomach. ‘Drogo was much loved. Only a Turk would have done such a thing.’
‘But I believe he knew his killer. Was it a rival? An envious neighbour? A friend?’
Odard shook his head despairingly. ‘None. None of them.’ He sounded close to weeping, though my questions were mild enough.
‘Do you know who killed him?’ I persisted.
‘No! Quino and I were building the tower by the bridge all that day. Only when we returned to the camp did I hear the rumours, that a company of Greeks had been seen with his body. I did not believe it until the lord Bohemond confirmed it – and when I saw the corpse in the cave.’
I knelt down and drew the ‘S’, the barbarian sigma, in the mud. ‘Does this sign mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What of a cross carved in Drogo’s back? Did you make the cut?’
‘No.’ Odard had wrapped his arms around himself in a feeble embrace, and rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘No.’
‘But you had seen it. You cannot have shared his tent so long without noticing it.’
‘I had seen it.’
‘Why did he disfigure himself so?’
‘Drogo was a man of exceptional piety. He sought to know God in all His works, and to prove his devotion to the Lord. It is written: “Peace He brings through the blood of His cross.”’
‘Then perhaps he has found peace now. Did a woman named Sarah ever visit your tent?’
The question prompted fresh turmoil in Odard’s expression. As if he had suffered a blow, he staggered back a few steps, then almost fell on the ground as he collided with a
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