Kingdom

Chapter 6

NOVEMBER 1164: JERUSALEM

‘So you are forbidden to fight?’ Yusuf asked. He was riding along the dried-up bed of a wadi with John at his side. Amalric and the constable Humphrey rode a few paces ahead. A hundred of the king’s knights followed behind. The rest of the army had dispersed, the sergeants and lords returning to their lands.

‘I am forbidden to draw blood.’ John reached into his saddlebag and produced a mace — a wicked-looking club with a heavy head of grooved steel. ‘I can still fight.’

‘But if you smash a man’s skull, will he not bleed?’

‘Yes, but the mace does not draw blood, it only crushes the skull. The blood comes later. It is an after-effect.’

Yusuf laughed. ‘That is ridiculous!’

‘Perhaps, but if you plant a seed and later a tree appears, does that mean that you made the tree grow? No. God did that. You only planted a seed.’

‘So you smash their skulls, and God makes them bleed?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I will never understand your faith.’

It was another version of the conversation that they had been having since leaving Alexandria. Yusuf could make no sense of the strange rules by which his friend now lived. He had marvelled at John’s tonsure, his vestments, the fact that he was expected to live in a church with other religious men. He feared that the man he had known had disappeared beneath that tunic and cross.

The road left the valley floor and began to angle uphill over rocky ground. They rode past olive groves and grapevines. Here and there, goats grazed.

‘All faiths have their mysteries, Yusuf,’ John said. ‘Is it logical that according to Islam, a man can marry five women, but a woman only one man?’

‘If a woman had more than one husband, then how would we know who was the father of her children?’

‘And why should that matter so?’

‘Why does it matter? Surely your faith does not welcome bastards.’

‘God loves all his children equally.’

‘Even the ones who do not deserve His love, the murderers and the thieves?’

‘Jesus forgave prostitutes and murderers alike. He teaches that all deserve to be loved.’

‘And what of you, John? Do you love all men equally? The Arab and the Frank? Christian and Muslim?’ He met John’s eyes. ‘Amalric and me?’

‘Not equally. But I pray for them all.’

‘And when you pray, whose victory do you ask for?’

‘I pray for peace.’

‘And when peace is not possible?’

‘I pray for you, brother.’

‘I would rather you fight for me.’ Yusuf regretted the words immediately. John looked away quickly, as if he had been slapped. He spurred ahead, and Yusuf sped up to rejoin him. ‘I am sorry, John. I know that you have no choice.’

‘I forgive you, brother,’ John murmured, his tone more irritated than forgiving.

They rode on in silence. As they crested the hill, Jerusalem came into view. ‘Al-Quds Sharif,’ Yusuf whispered. The Holy Sanctuary. Even at this distance he could make out the bulky Tower of David, the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and beyond them, the gleaming roof of the Dome of the Rock. He was surprised to find tears in his eyes.

‘She is beautiful,’ he said. ‘More, she is a symbol of all that we have lost; not just the city but the people who died there and who have died since fighting for her. Jerusalem is where Mohammed rose into heaven before returning to write of it. She is our past, the childhood of our religion, and the Franks have taken her from us.’

‘I am sure the crusaders felt the same when they first laid eyes on the city,’ John observed. ‘Jerusalem is where Christ died, and it was in Christian hands for hundreds of years before the Muslims took it.’

Yusuf’s brow knit, but he said nothing.

‘Perhaps we can learn to share the city,’ John suggested.

‘Perhaps.’

The road led to an arched gateway that sat in the shadow of one of the citadel’s massive square towers. Merchants’ carts were crowded around the gate. A tax was due on any non-edible goods that entered the city, so these men had chosen to set up shop outside. Some knelt as the king approached. Others loudly hawked their wares. ‘Fine perfumes, my lord!’ ‘Women, sire! A slave girl for your pleasure!’

Amalric did not stop until he reached the gate, where the seneschal Guy and the patriarch waited to greet him. Yusuf and John reined in just behind the king.

‘Welcome, sire!’ Guy said. ‘God grant you health and joy.’

‘Praise God for your safe return,’ the patriarch added.

‘Spare me the formalities, I am tired and need a bath.’ Amalric glanced back to Yusuf. ‘You’ll want to put your helmet on, Emir.’ He spurred ahead, and Guy and the patriarch fell in beside him.

‘My helmet?’ Yusuf asked John.

John nodded. ‘Muslims are not welcome inside the city.’

Yusuf pulled on his helmet and followed Amalric through the gate. The road beyond was lined with men and veiled women who had come to see the return of their king. They cheered and Amalric waved.

Yusuf’s helmet rang as a piece of rotten fruit slammed into it, knocking his head to the side. ‘Murderer!’ a veiled woman shouted. ‘Go to hell, sand-demon!’

There was an angry murmur in the crowd. ‘Saracen dog!’ someone else yelled. A fist-sized rock sailed just in front of Yusuf’s face.

‘Leave him be!’ Amalric roared. He had reined in his horse and was glaring at the crowd. ‘The next person who throws something will lose his hand!’ He looked back to Yusuf. ‘I apologize, Saladin.’

‘It is nothing,’ Yusuf replied. He turned to John and added more quietly. ‘Now I know how Reynald felt.’

‘No, it is unacceptable,’ Amalric was saying. ‘But I shall make amends. You shall be my honoured guest tonight at the feast to celebrate my return.’

Yusuf sat beside King Amalric at the head table. John sat to Yusuf’s left. Another, longer table had been set up at a right angle to the head table. It stretched the length of the barrel-vaulted hall — the first completed part of the new royal palace being built south of the Tower of David. The table was lined with an eclectic mix of men: tonsured priests beside richly dressed merchants; clean-shaven Franks next to native Christians with trimmed beards; men who ate with their hands and wiped their fingers on the fur of the dogs who milled under the table beside others who ate with fork and knife.

A servant refilled Amalric’s goblet of wine and turned to Yusuf, who waved him away. The second course had yet to be served, and it was already the third time Yusuf had refused, but the first that Amalric had noticed. ‘How rude of me,’ the king said. ‘Bring Saladin a cup of water.’

‘Thank you, sire.’

Amalric nodded. ‘How long will you stay with us, Emir?’

‘A week, if I may. I am eager to explore the city.’

‘John will serve as your guide. What do you wish to see?’

‘Qubbat as-Sakhrah,’ Yusuf said. ‘The Dome of the Rock.’

Amalric frowned in confusion.

‘The Templum Domini, sire,’ John explained.

‘Ah, yes, the Lord’s Temple, where Christ threw out the moneychangers. The Augustinians have charge of it now.’

It was Yusuf’s turn to frown. He turned to John and spoke quietly in Arabic. ‘But the Dome was built after the Muslim conquest.’

‘What was that?’ Amalric asked.

‘Saladin says that he is eager to explore the Temple,’ John said.

‘And the Al-Aqsa mosque,’ Yusuf added. ‘After Masjid al-Haram in Mecca, and the mosque of the Prophet in Medina, it is the most sacred place of worship for my people.’

‘The Templum Solomonis,’ John explained to Amalric. Then, to Yusuf: ‘The Templars are quartered there now.’

‘Be careful of them, Saladin,’ the king warned. ‘The Templars do not like visitors, especially Saracens.’

‘Not so,’ the Templar grand master, Bertrand, called from down the table. ‘You will be welcome at the Temple, Saladin.’

Yusuf nodded in his direction. ‘Shukran.’

The conversation paused for a moment as servants brought forth the next course: two roasted boars on platters. Yusuf blanched as one of the boars was set down before him.

‘You are the guest of honour,’ Amalric told him. ‘You may carve.’

‘I am sorry, King. The flesh of swine is forbidden to my people.’

‘Ah, y-yes, s-so it is,’ Amalric stuttered in embarrassment. He nodded to a servant. ‘Take this a-aw-’ His face contorted as words failed him. ‘Remove this, and bring something more palatable.’

Heraclius, who was seated beyond John and the patriarch to Yusuf’s left, leaned forward and looked towards Yusuf. ‘You do not drink wine. You do not eat pork. What sort of religion is that?’

Yusuf opened his mouth to speak, but John replied first. ‘Do we Christians not abstain from the flesh of animals on Fridays? And many religious orders eat no meat at all.’

The patriarch Amalric set his fork down. ‘Are you comparing Christian monks to the heathen Mohammedans?’

‘Yes,’ John said without hesitation. ‘The monks do not eat meat because they follow a rule. The Muslims follow their own rule, Your Beatitude.’

‘But only one of the two rules is of God, and I have no doubt which one that is, nor should you. Christ’s first miracle was to turn water into wine. God made grapes. He made swine. Why would he forbid us to enjoy them?’

‘Our place is not to question Allah’s designs,’ Yusuf replied. ‘He has commanded us to abstain from wine and pork, and so we do. It is our faith.’

‘Faith?’ The patriarch snorted dismissively. ‘You Saracens worship a rock. What sort of faith is that?’

‘We believe that Abraham placed Al-Hajaru-I-Aswad in Mecca. The black stone was sent to Adam and Eve by angels.’

‘It is a rock,’ Heraclius retorted.

‘It is,’ Yusuf agreed. ‘We do not worship the stone, but rather the God who sent it. Just as you do not worship the cross, but rather the Christ who died upon it.’

‘But-’

‘That is enough, Heraclius,’ Amalric cut across the conversation. ‘A good answer, Saladin. You are as wise as you are brave. I pray that the peace between our peoples lasts for many years, and that I do not have the misfortune to meet you again in battle. To peace.’ He raised his cup and drained it.

Yusuf glanced at John and then drank his water. ‘To peace,’ he murmured. ‘Inshallah.’

John rose early the next morning and went to the baths in the Hospitaller complex. The sun was just rising as he emerged. He strolled over to the Street of Herbs and purchased two oranges from the fruit seller, Tiv. The city was quiet as he walked the short distance to the king’s palace, in the shade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He went to the room where Yusuf was staying and knocked. The door opened immediately. Yusuf was already dressed in a white caftan and sandals.

‘I thought you would never arrive. I am eager to explore the city, John.’

John handed Yusuf an orange. ‘I brought you breakfast.’

‘Shukran. Now come. Let us begin.’

John led him out into the palace courtyard. They were halfway across when someone called John’s name. He spotted the young Prince Baldwin playing with several companions. ‘John!’ the prince called again. It was the first time John had seen him in nearly seven months, and the boy was notably taller. He must be nearly four now, John calculated. The prince raced across the courtyard and wrapped his arms around John’s leg.

‘Who is this?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Prince Baldwin,’ John said. ‘I tutor him in Arabic.’

Yusuf crouched so that he was at the prince’s height. ‘Kaifa halak?’

The prince became suddenly shy. ‘I am well,’ he said as he peeked between John’s legs.

‘In Arabic,’ John told him.

‘Ana bekhair,’ Baldwin said and then, gaining in confidence, he added, ‘Motasharefon bema’refatek.’

‘A pleasure to meet you as well,’ Yusuf replied with a smile.

‘I have never met a Saracen before,’ Baldwin declared.

Yusuf’s eyebrows rose. ‘And what do you think?’

The prince shrugged. ‘Where is your turban?’

Yusuf laughed. ‘It is a cloudy day. I have no need of one.’

The prince considered this for a moment before turning to John. ‘I thought the Saracens would be more … different.’

‘As I have told you, they are men and women, just like us. Now go and play with your fellows.’

Baldwin headed back to the corner where the other children were pretending to fight with swords. Yusuf called after him: ‘Ma’a as-salaama.’

‘Allah yasalmak,’ Baldwin replied, and ran over to join in the play.

John looked to Yusuf. ‘You see. Not all Franks hate your people, Yusuf. Baldwin will be king someday. He can bring peace.’

‘He is a clever child. Perhaps you are right, John.’

Later that morning John emerged from the Templum Domini with Yusuf at his side. They had been forced to leave quickly when one of the monks had taken offence at Yusuf’s presence.

‘Have you seen enough?’ John asked hopefully.

Yusuf pointed to the Al-Aqsa mosque, which lay beyond a series of arches, the remnant of some long-vanished structure. ‘I wish to visit the mosque. It is time for noon prayer.’

John’s eyes widened. ‘You wish to pray there?’

‘How can I visit Jerusalem and not pray in Al-Aqsa, one of the holiest places in all of Islam?’

‘And the Templar headquarters.’

‘The Grand Master said I was welcome.’

‘The other knights are not as enlightened as Bertrand.’

‘I thought you said the Franks could learn to respect my people.’

‘Not the Templars,’ John grumbled. ‘They are fanatics.’

‘Please, friend. I may never return to Jerusalem again.’

‘Very well,’ John sighed, ‘but let me do the talking.’

John led them to the Temple, which was fronted by an arcade held up by pointed arches. Two Templar sergeants with spears in hand framed the entrance that sat in the shadows of the arcade. The guards eyed Yusuf suspiciously and then looked to John.

‘What is your business here, Father?’ one of them asked. He was a short man with a thick, bull-like neck. From his accented French, John guessed that he was Norman, and a new arrival to the Holy Land.

John gestured to Yusuf. ‘King Amalric has engaged me to show this man the city.’

‘He is a Saracen?’ the guard asked.

John thought about lying but decided against it. ‘Yes.’

The second Templar lowered his spear so that it pointed towards Yusuf’s chest. ‘He is not welcome here.’

John stepped between Yusuf and the spear point. ‘We will be no trouble. He only wishes to see the main hall.’

‘He is a sand-devil,’ the thick-necked Templar spat. ‘He will not enter.’

John drew himself up straight. ‘I am a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and in the name of the Patriarch, I order you to step aside.’

‘The Temple was granted to us by King Baldwin II,’ the guard replied. ‘The Patriarch has no power here.’

‘Leave,’ the other guard barked, jabbing his spear so that it stopped just inches short of John’s chest.

‘What is going on here?’ Bertrand de Blanchefort approached from behind the guards. ‘John?’

‘Grand Master.’

‘And Emir Saladin.’ Bertrand turned to Yusuf. ‘How do you find Jerusalem?’

‘A beautiful city. I had wished to pray inside your Temple. It is holy to my people.’

Bertrand turned to the guards. ‘Let them in.’

The bullish guard scowled and reluctantly stepped aside.

John followed Yusuf inside. They walked down a wide, high-ceilinged nave lined with columns on either side. Windows set high above shed a dim light. At the end of the nave, they found themselves standing under a dome. Yusuf pointed to a niche built into the wall of the hallway to their left. ‘A mirhab; the mark on the wall indicates the direction of Mecca. I shall pray there.’

John stood just outside the niche while Yusuf began to pray, murmuring the first words of the Sura al-Fatiha. ‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful-’ Yusuf had just knelt for the first time when John noticed the bull-necked guard approaching. He held up a hand to stop him, but the man shoved him aside. He grabbed Yusuf from behind, lifted him from the ground, and set him back down facing east.

‘That is the way to pray, Saracen!’

John’s fists clenched. ‘Leave him be, friend.’

Yusuf put a hand on John’s arm. ‘Easy,’ he whispered. ‘I do not wish to cause trouble.’ He turned to the Templar. ‘The Grand Master gave me permission to pray as I please.’

The Norman glared at them and then turned and stomped away. Yusuf resumed his prayers. Watching him, John could remember when he had been struck by the strangeness of Muslim prayer, the kneeling and prostrating. After seeing Yusuf pray hundreds, even thousands of times, he now realized that it was not so different from Christian prayer. He had spent more time than he wished on his knees since he became a priest. And now that he was supposed to pray seven times a day, the five daily prayers required of Muslims did not seem so odd.

His thoughts were interrupted by the Templar, who had returned without John noticing. ‘East!’ The man pointed as he shouted at Yusuf. ‘You should face east!’

Yusuf looked to John and raised an eyebrow, as if to say: ‘See. This is why peace between our peoples is not possible.’

John grabbed the guard by his surcoat and pulled him away. ‘I said leave him be.’

The Templar knocked John’s hand aside and swung at him. John sidestepped the blow, grabbed the man’s arm and pivoted, using the guard’s momentum to swing him towards the wall. At the same time, he stuck out his leg. The Templar tripped over it and slammed face first into the wall. He roared in pain and began to rise. John punched him hard, catching him in the jaw, and the Norman slumped to the floor, unmoving.

A half-dozen Templars had gathered around them now and were staring at John wide-eyed. Yusuf took his arm. ‘I have finished my prayers. We should go, friend.’

‘Fresh bread!’ a vendor cried. ‘Fresh bread!’ His voice was drowned out by the ring of steel upon steel. John jumped to the side to avoid the sparks flying into the street from where a blacksmith hammered down on a red-hot sword blade. He continued down the steeply sloped street, leading Yusuf through the crowd that had gathered at the shops in the shade of the Temple Mount.

‘John!’ It was a woman’s voice. ‘Here!’

John turned to find himself confronted by a veiled woman flanked by two sergeants in mail. She wore a bulky caftan that revealed nothing of the shape underneath. A single blonde curl had escaped from her headdress. ‘It is I, Agnes.’

John bowed. ‘God grant you joy, Lady de Courtenay.’

Agnes gestured towards Yusuf. ‘And who is your friend?’

‘This is Saladin, Emir of Tell Bashir.’

‘My lady,’ Yusuf said.

‘A Saracen lord in Jerusalem … how intriguing.’

‘He is a guest of King Amalric,’ John explained.

‘The lands beyond the Jordan fascinate me,’ Agnes said. ‘You must tell me all about them, Saladin. Come. I am not allowed at court, but I keep a home in the city not far from here.’ She turned and strode through the crowd without waiting to see if they would follow. Her sergeants walked ahead of her, clearing a path.

John glanced at Yusuf, who shrugged. They followed Agnes back towards the Mount, and down a dim passageway vaulted over with stone. Past it, Agnes turned right into the narrow streets of the Syrian quarter. The people here were mostly Jacobites, who looked to the Patriarch of Antioch rather than the Pope as their authority. They spoke Arabic, and the men wore trimmed beards and skullcaps.

Agnes’s home was a nondescript building on a quiet side street. A tiled entryway opened on to an interior courtyard with a burbling fountain in the centre. ‘Wait here,’ she told them. She pointed to some stools in the shade of the western wall. ‘I will return in a moment.’

John and Yusuf sat, and a servant brought them glasses of orange juice, so sweet that it made John’s teeth ache.

Yusuf leaned close to John and whispered in Arabic. ‘What do you know of this woman?’

‘She is the former wife of King Amalric.’

‘Why did they divorce? Was she unfaithful?’

‘No. The rumour at court is that they divorced because of consanguinity. They share a great-great-grandfather.’

‘Then why were they allowed to marry?’

John shrugged.

‘Speaking of me?’ It was Agnes, who had stepped silently back into the courtyard. She had changed into a green silk caftan, loose at the arms and tight about the waist, a plunging neckline offering a provocative glimpse of shadowy cleavage. She had removed her veil and wore her long blonde hair down around her shoulders. Both John and Yusuf rose as she approached. ‘I see that you have been served refreshments,’ she said and smiled. She had the sort of smile that would make men act the fool. John glanced at Yusuf, who was staring wide-eyed, enraptured.

‘Please, sit,’ Agnes instructed and took a seat on one of the stools. As she did so, she leaned forward, and John could not help but stare down the front of her caftan. Some very unpriestly thoughts flashed through his mind, and he decided it would be best to leave soon. He remained standing while Yusuf sat beside Agnes.

‘Thank you for your courteous invitation to your home, my lady,’ John said. ‘But we must excuse ourselves. We are expected at the palace.’

She waved away his remark as if she were swatting a fly. ‘Nonsense. The King is meeting with Chancellor William. They will be busy for some time.’

‘But William is in Constantinople,’ John countered.

‘He returned this morning with important news. Now sit, John.’

John reluctantly did as she asked. He had heard nothing of William’s return, and he was the chancellor’s secretary. ‘How do you know this?’

‘I make it my business to stay informed. After all, Amalric is the father of my children. Tell me, how is the young prince?’

‘He is well.’

‘And he makes progress in his studies?’

‘He has a gift for languages, and he enjoys history and swordplay. He will make a good king.’ Agnes looked pleased, and John smiled, happy to have pleased her. But this was not what he wanted to discuss. He frowned as he realized how easily she had led the conversation away from William’s return. ‘You said that the Chancellor brings news, my lady?’

‘He does. I will tell you, but first I want to hear from you, Saladin.’ She turned to him and placed a hand on his knee. Yusuf blushed scarlet. ‘You have recently returned from Alexandria?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘I understand that you were charged with defending the city?’

‘Yes. My uncle left me with a thousand men, plus volunteers amongst the Alexandrians.’

‘And how many did you face?’

‘The combined Frankish and Egyptian forces numbered well over ten thousand.’

‘You must have been frightened.’

‘No, my lady.’

‘I would have been,’ Agnes said. ‘I am sure of it.’

John was not so sure. The Lady de Courtenay seemed more than capable of looking after herself.

‘Everyone feels fear,’ Yusuf told her, ‘but a warrior learns to rise above it.’

Agnes leaned towards him, revealing another glimpse of the curve of her breasts. ‘And you are a great warrior, are you not?’ Yusuf’s eyes were locked on her bosom. John frowned. Why was she so interested in Yusuf? What could she hope to gain from him?

‘Do not pout, John,’ Agnes said. She winked conspiratorially at Yusuf. ‘He is upset because we have ignored him.’

John forced a smile. ‘I am not upset, my lady.’

‘You are a poor liar. It is an endearing quality. My former husband, Amalric, is also a poor liar.’ She paused, and her mouth tightened for just a moment. But when she spoke again, her tone was light. ‘You must grow accustomed to women ignoring you, John. You are a priest, wedded to the Holy Church. A great loss for the women of Jerusalem. You would have been quite the catch.’

John opened his mouth to reply but could find no words. He could feel his face flushing as red as Yusuf’s.

She laughed at his consternation. ‘Surely you must know that women find you attractive, John. A strong jaw, eyes as blue as the summer sky, broad shoulders. Ah, but you do look ill in your priest’s cloak. I would prefer you in mail, or in a simple caftan, like Saladin here.’ She turned her attention back to Yusuf. ‘Are you married, Emir?’

‘He is not,’ John said, hoping that she would turn her green eyes back towards him.

Agnes ignored him. All her attention was on Yusuf. ‘Ah, but you have your eye on someone, yes?’ Yusuf looked away. ‘You do! What is she like? Blonde? No, of course not; she is a Saracen. Dark hair then, and dark eyes, and golden skin like the desert sands.’ Yusuf was staring speechless at his feet. ‘Forgive me, Emir. I see that it pains you to speak of it. Let us talk of happier things. King Amalric is to be married. That is the news that William brings.’

‘Married? Are you certain?’ John thought back to his conversation with Amalric, the day they had arrived in Cairo. The king had talked of marriage. Had he known then?

‘Yes, I am sure, John. He is to marry Maria Komnena, grandniece of the Emperor Manuel.’ Agnes’s delicate nose wrinkled, as if she had smelled something disagreeable. ‘She is a sad little thing. But she brings a large dowry, and her marriage will seal the alliance between Amalric and Manuel.’

Yusuf leaned forward, interested. ‘When will this marriage take place?’

‘Maria is a girl of only ten. They will wait until she is older; thirteen perhaps. Poor girl. I was no older when I was married.’

‘To Amalric?’ John asked.

‘No, to Reynald of Marash. He was a beast of a man, but I did not have to bear with him for long. He died shortly after our marriage. After that I was engaged to Hugh of Ibelin, but he was captured in battle before we could marry. The story has a happy ending, though. After Amalric divorced me, Hugh came to court me once more. We were married last year, eight years after our first engagement.’

John winced. He had not known she had married again. He rose. ‘We truly must go, Lady de Courtenay.’

‘Then I bid you farewell and Godspeed on your journey, both of you.’

‘Pardon, my lady? I have no plans to leave Jerusalem.’

A smile played at the corner of Agnes’s mouth. ‘Plans have been made for you, John. Amalric is sending you and William to Aleppo to negotiate the release of the prisoners that Nur ad-Din took at Harim.’

Agnes was very well informed indeed. John wondered who her contacts were at court. ‘Why would the King send me?’ he asked.

‘Amalric hopes your friendships amongst the Saracens will prove valuable in the negotiations.’ She rose. ‘I do not wish to keep either of you from the preparations for your journey. Thank you both for honouring me with your company.’

Yusuf bowed. ‘It is we who were honoured, my lady.’

She gave him her most winning smile. ‘God keep you, Saladin. My man will show you out.’

A servant stepped forward and led Yusuf towards the exit. John began to follow, but Agnes grabbed his arm. ‘I have no confessor in Jerusalem, Father. I would appreciate it if you would visit from time to time to relieve me of the burden of my sins.’

John hesitated. William had warned him to be wary of the Lady de Courtenay, yet he enjoyed her easy manner, the touch of her hand on his arm, the warmth in her smile.

‘Of course, my lady.’