01 Death's Head by Robert Broomall

Author:Robert Broomall [Broomall, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blue Stone Media
Published: 2016-04-27T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 52

“When will I see more of the chronicle?” Geoffrey demanded of Fauston.

The two men were headed for Balian of Ibelin’s tent and the grand council, Geoffrey thinking that attendance at the council might spur his wayward chronicler to action. Fauston had anticipated this question and he replied smoothly, “My lord, there’s been nothing to write about. Everyone has been sick.”

“Then write about that.”

“Yes, my lord,” Fauston said. Roger had picked a bad time to go off and nearly die. Fauston needed to get him working again.

The earl stopped and faced his chronicler. “See here, Fauston, you have a serious responsibility. Years from now, when you and I are dust, people will want to know what happened on this crusade. It’s your job to tell them. Tell them the truth.”

“I will, my lord.”

“Another thing—don’t put the emphasis on me any longer.”

Fauston’s eyes widened. “My lord?”

The earl waved a hand. He’d only arranged to have the chronicle written to make his wife happy, but now he saw a real purpose for it. “This crusade isn’t about me. It’s about all the men here, not only the nobles but the common soldiers, as well. I want their sacrifices to be remembered for all time. I think that’s important. I think they deserve that, and that’s your job.”

Fauston wondered what had gotten into the earl. “Of course, my lord.”

The trumpets blew again as they resumed walking. The French king had called the council, and Geoffrey was curious as to what he would say. It was a warm day, and the bottom half of Balian’s pavilion had been rolled up to let in air. Geoffrey and Fauston passed the guards and went inside.

The pavilion was packed. To the din of talking were added the smells of sweat and perfume, of wine and sweetmeats being served to the guests, and the cinnamon that men and women chewed to sweeten their breaths. They passed shaven-headed Conrad of Montferrat. “Congratulations, Marquis,” Geoffrey told him, inclining his head politely. “I hear your wife is with child.”

“Be a miracle if she wasn’t,” Conrad replied, showing rare good humor. “I ploughed that field day and night last winter.”

Henry of Champagne was there, as were Guy of Lusignan and Leopold of Austria, also newly arrived. There were a lot of other new faces, as well. The newcomers were easy to spot, with their long hair and fresh clothes. Like most everyone else who had been in the Holy Land for any length of time, Geoffrey wore his hair and beard short now. Geoffrey saw King Philip’s cousin and good friend, the count of Flanders, barely off the boat and already so ill he was forced to sit, while a youthful servant knelt beside him and fanned his pallid face.

“Geoffrey!” It was the big, burly Fleming, James of Avesnes. James had been ill and Geoffrey hadn’t seen him in some time. James looked older; he had lost a lot of weight and most of his teeth had fallen out. “How the Devil

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