The Black Sheep

The Black Sheep

Peter Darman

Copyright © 2019 Pete Darman

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

Formatted by Jo Harrison

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Half-title

List of characters

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Historical Notes

It is over 800 years since Rome fell to the barbarians

But in the eastern Mediterranean, a Roman emperor still rules an empire founded 1000 years before, from the city of Constantinople

Western Europe is riven by incessant warfare between jealous and greedy kings and princes

All Christendom is under threat from the followers of Islam, who have conquered Arabia, North Africa, the Holy Land and parts of Anatolia

And in Sicily, a 20-year conflict called the War of the Sicilian Vespers has come to an end

List of characters

Those marked with a dagger † are known to history.

Byzantine Empire (called Roman Empire by contemporaries)

†Andronicus: Roman emperor

Arabates: Alan mercenary in the service of Emperor Andronicus

Arcadius Drogon: Governor of Magnesia

†Athanasius: Patriarch of Constantinople

†Ioannes Komnenos: Count of the Thrakesion Theme, Governor of Philadelphia

Leo Diogenes: commander of the Paramonai

†Maria: Byzantine/Roman princess, sister of Emperor Andronicus

†Michael: Co-Emperor of the Byzantine/Roman Empire, son of Emperor Andronicus

†Michael Cosses: Count of the Opsikion Theme, Governor of Artake

Timothy the Forest Dweller: eunuch, imperial treasurer

Catalan Company

(a band of Spanish mercenaries made up of horsemen and foot soldiers called Almogavars)

Angel: Almogavar captain

Ayna: Persian, former ghazi warrior

†Bernat de Rocafort: commander of the Catalan Company’s horsemen

Carla Rey: wife of Sancho Rey

Chana: Jew, former Turkish slave

Hector: Almogavar captain

Jordi Rey: friend of Luca Baldi, only son of Sancho Rey

Luca Baldi: former Italian shepherd

Marc: Almogavar captain

†Roger de Flor: Commander of the Catalan Company

Sancho Rey: Almogavar captain, head of the Almogavar council

Turkish warlords

Izzeddin Arslan: Sufi fanatic, leader of the ghazi army

†Karesi Bey: emir of the Karesi Emirate

Mahmud of Caesarea: Karesi Bey’s commander of horsemen

†Mehmed Bey: emir of the Aydin Emirate

†Saruhan Bey: emir of the Saruhan Emirate

†Sasa Bey: emir of the Germiyanid Emirate

Preface

Constantinople, 1302

The great city still looked impressive, if one did not peer too closely. It had been nearly a hundred years since the Latin Frank crusaders from the west had sacked the city, emptying it of most of its treasures, damaging and burning its buildings, raping its women and girls and desecrating its holy places. For nearly a thousand years the city named after the Roman Emperor Constantine had been a beacon of light in a dark and uncivilised world. At its height, the city’s population had totalled half a million souls, but barely seventy thousand now lived within its impressive and still intact walls. It was still a great city of marble, stone and red-tile roofs when many towns and cities in the rest of the world were filled with drab buildings of wood and thatch.

Constantinople was surrounded on three sides by water, and on the landward side were strong fortifications that had resisted the attacks of barbarians, such as Persians and Muslims, but not the Latin crusaders who had so basely betrayed fellow Christians. The crusaders had breached the walls of Constantinople in the northwestern section of the city defences, in the so-called Blachernae area, from where they launched attacks into the city itself. And it was to the Blachernae area, specifically the palace of the same name, that General George Mouzalon headed, riding through the district containing the houses of Constantinople’s wealthiest aristocrats, which clustered around the palace. The latter was sited on a hill overlooking the city walls and beyond them to the west the Philopation, a large park used for hunting. To the north were the sea walls of the Golden Horn, the narrow bay that was one of the finest natural harbours in the world.

The Roman emperors who ruled from Constantinople used to live in the Grand Palace, an impressive, sprawling complex built as an equivalent to the Palatine Palace in Rome. At its height it was a vast collection of individual palaces built on terraces overlooking the Sea of Marmara. But they had been so thoroughly looted and vandalised by the Franks that there was no longer a Grand Palace. Instead, reflecting the diminished status of both the emperor and the empire he ruled over, the imperial throne was located in the much more functional Blachernae Palace, in reality a palace-citadel surrounded by walls and towers.

The general rode through the gates into the huge courtyard where chariot races, gymnastics and military parades took place, though only on celebratory occasions. He looked around the largely empty space and smiled. There would be no celebrations for a long while, if ever. Guards on the walls observed him as he rode up the hill to the palace itself, burly soldiers with axes stepping forward to block his path. Then stepping aside and bowing their heads when they recognised him. He dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to one.

‘Take him to the stables.’

‘Yes, general,’ answered the soldier in a foreign accent.

They were Varangians, the ‘axe-bearing barbarians’ who were the emperor’s personal bodyguard. Originally from Kiev-Rus, they now comprised mostly Norsemen and Danes, with a smattering of Englishmen. How he would have loved to lead a whole army of Varangians – men superbly equipped with chainmail armour, helmets, large axes, swords and shields. Soldiers who could cut through enemy formations like a hot knife through butter. Alas, the Varangians never left the palace, the emperor keeping them close to him at all times. Once they had numbered a corps of six thousand men; now only a few hundred remained. It cut him to the quick to know, despite their depleted numbers, they were still the best soldiers the empire could muster.

He walked up the steps leading to the palace and caught sight of a familiar figure. Obese, bald, a double chin threatening to obscure the solid gold torc around his neck, Timothy the Forest Dweller stood smiling at him like an oversized toad. His nickname derived from his place of birth in a densely forested area in Cappadocia, a region now lost to the enemy. The derogatory term was due to his immense power at the court of the emperor, for Timothy was not only a eunuch but also the imperial treasurer. Dressed in an apricot-coloured robe called a kabbadion, a kaftan-like garment with full sleeves and fastened at the front, it was richly decorated with gold on the cuffs and hem. A multitude of pearls had also been stitched on the garment but the most expensive item Timothy wore was the gold torc. The church denounced such ‘pagan’ items but such was the influence of the chief treasurer with the emperor that he ignored its denunciations.

‘Welcome, general, the emperor is expecting you.’

George Mouzalon was always surprised by the deep voice of the eunuch, that and his great size, but then he found the whole concept of eunuchs bizarre and slightly unnerving.

‘It is good to see you are unharmed, general,’ remarked Timothy as they both walked through one of the long, colonnaded corridors that filled the Blachernae. Though the palace was a functional, three-storey building, attempts had been made to decorate it in a style to make the emperor and his family feel at home. Thus, corridors were adorned with gold mosaics portraying imperial military victories, their floors paved with different-coloured marble tiles.

Varangians stood guard at every doorway, round scarlet shields decorated with a double-headed eagle in gold slung on their backs. In the throne room itself, more Varangians stood along the walls and around the platform on which the emperor sat on a throne of gold inlaid with precious stones. Occupying it was Emperor Andronicus, a man in his early forties but who looked twenty years older. His hair was greying and his cheeks were sunken, accentuated by his narrow face and long nose. His brown eyes were pools of weariness and the gold crown suspended by a gold chain above his head resembled a Sword of Damocles rather than a bejewelled orb of power. A deeply religious man, he wore a forked beard to signify his moderation, reverence and graveness. He lifted a hand to Mouzalon.

‘Welcome, general, we are glad to see you.’

The general doubted that, but he thanked God his emperor was indeed a man of moderation and religion, else his head would most likely already be decorating Constantinople’s walls.

‘How many men did we lose, general?’

Michael, the emperor’s son, was not so moderate or pious. A man in his mid-twenties whom his father had made co-emperor, his eyes bored into the general. He was the future of the empire of Constantine and he did not look favourably on anyone who jeopardised that future. The recent defeat of an imperial army at Bapheus, a plain east of the city of Nicomedia, in the province of Bithnyia, near to Constantinople, had resulted in yet more territory being lost to the Muslims.

‘A couple of hundred, highness,’ replied the general.

‘Then you will be retaking the field against these infidels,’ snapped Michael.

The general sighed. ‘Alas, no, highness. Half the army, the Alan contingent, deserted before the battle began, which makes attacking the Muslims foolhardy in the extreme.’

The Alans, originally an ancient Iranian tribe, had occupied the areas north of the Caspian and Black Seas, before the Huns had forced them west into Europe, though others ventured south into the Caucasus. Famed horse soldiers, they had been hired as mercenaries by Roman emperors for centuries. However, like all mercenaries they quit their service when their pay ran out.

Andronicus looked at the general. ‘Deserted?’

‘They were paid for three months’ service, highness,’ said Mouzalon, ‘which unfortunately expired the day before the battle.’

‘If we lose Anatolia,’ stated Michael, ‘the empire loses all its recruiting grounds, and our army will wither and die. We must retake the lands the Muslimss have captured, otherwise they will be hammering on the gates of Constantinople itself.’

Mouzalon nodded. ‘I agree, highness.’

He glanced at the Varangian Guards standing around the emperor's platform.

‘Perhaps I could have the Varangian Guardsmen as a cadre, around which I could build a new army.’

The emperor’s eyes opened wide in alarm.

‘The Varangian Guard? They exist to defend the imperial family, general. Would you rob me of the only thing that stands between me and ruination?’

It was a fair point, especially as the only things standing between Andronicus and the victors of Bapheus were the Varangian Guard, another indigenous guard unit called the Paramonai, the city garrison and the empire’s navy anchored in the Golden Horn, though many of the ships were manned by Genoese mercenaries.

Andronicus shook his head. ‘For a thousand years, this city and the empire it built has stood as a beacon of light and hope in a dark and uncivilised world. God will not abandon Constantinople in its hour of need, general. But I will not allow the Varangian Guard to leave the city.’

The emperor turned to his son and co-emperor.

‘What of the counts in Thrace and Greece? They must surely be able to raise an army between them to fight the Muslims?’

Each province of the empire was ruled by a count, who commanded all the military resources his province could muster. And any force raised by a count was made up of natives rather than foreign mercenaries, which in theory made it more reliable on the battlefield. But, as with so many things in the empire, the provinces had shrunk in number following the contraction of the empire’s borders. And just as provinces in Anatolia had been lost to the Muslims, those on the western side of the Bosporus, the narrow strait that divided Europe from Asia, were under threat from the Serbs and Bulgars.

‘Alas, father,’ said Michael, ‘if we strip the western provinces of troops, our enemies will seek to take advantage and we may lose Greece altogether. A blow from which we may never recover.’

‘There must be some soldiers somewhere we can use to reclaim our territories in the east,’ wailed Andronicus pathetically. ‘The march of the Muslims on our eastern frontier is an affront not only to God, but also to me.’

His tired eyes looked at George Mouzalon and Michael in turn, though neither had an answer to his miserable plea. The emperor’s gaze eventually turned to Timothy, who was smiling in a self-satisfied manner.

‘Something amuses you, lord treasurer?’ asked the emperor icily.

In Rome, eunuchs had been classed as lower than beggars, but in Constantinople they had always been accorded high status, aristocrats often having their sons castrated so they could more easily become governors, ambassadors, generals, admirals and other important posts in the empire. The Orthodox Church regarded eunuchs as ‘angels on earth’, and emperors saw them as being reliable and free of the vice of sexual desire, which was far from the truth. They could thus be trusted to carry out duties in the women’s quarters, as well as being relied upon to undertake the education of royal princes and princesses. For centuries, the rulers of Constantinople had surrounded themselves with high-ranking eunuchs to provide them with loyal service and valued advice. Timothy the Forest Dweller did not disappoint his master.

‘This is God’s city, highness, which as you say has stood for a thousand years and will stand for a thousand more,’ began the eunuch. ‘He who loves this city, its emperor and its people will not allow the infidel to foul its holy precincts or indeed approach its sacred walls.’

‘Get to the meat of it,’ snapped Michael.

Timothy remained unflustered. ‘You will have heard of the War of the Sicilian Vespers, my lord?’

Michael wracked his brain. ‘No?’

Timothy fought the urge to laugh in Michael’s face. The emperor, though, was not so ignorant.

‘The conflict between the Angevin French and the Aragonese Spanish over control of the island of Sicily?’

Timothy bowed his porcine head. ‘Indeed, majesty.’

‘What of it?’ asked Andronicus.

‘The war has recently ended, highness,’ said Timothy. ‘The brother of the Spanish King James, King Frederick, has been recognised by the Angevins and the false Bishop of Rome, the so-called pope, as the legitimate ruler of Sicily, thus bringing hostilities to an end.’

‘I thank God for bringing this about,’ reflected Andronicus. ‘The people of Sicily have been subjected to the cruelties that war brings for twenty years. Glad as we are for this miracle, lord treasurer, I fail to see how this benefits Constantinople.’

‘There are mercenaries in the pay of King Frederick, highness,’ said Timothy, ‘who are now without employment. Mercenaries, moreover, who have proved themselves to be ferocious soldiers. We should look to bringing these mercenaries to Constantinople, highness, to fight against the Muslims.’

‘They are Catholics,’ said Michael. ‘Why would apostates fight for the true church?’

‘Money, lord,’ sighed Mouzalon. ‘If they are paid, they will fight. They have, after all, been happily fighting and killing their fellow Catholics for twenty years.’

Andronicus was unsure. ‘The empire has a long history of hiring mercenaries, which has cost the imperial treasury much money, often for little success. We currently employ Alans and Genoese, and in the past have hired Cilicians, Cumans, Georgians and Hungarians to fight our enemies. Why should I pay for yet more mercenaries who might run away from the enemy, just as the Alans did?’

‘Two reasons, highness,’ answered Timothy. ‘First, and to be blunt, we have little choice. General Mouzalon has valiantly endeavoured to hold back the Muslim tide, but without additional resources he cannot withstand them.’

Mouzalon was nodding his head in agreement, which was noted by the emperor.

‘And the second?’ asked Andronicus.

‘These mercenaries,’ said Timothy, ‘comprise a self-contained army, an army moreover that has tasted victory after victory in Sicily, against the flower of Frankish chivalry.’

‘Is there such a thing?’ sneered Michael.

The emperor ignored his son. ‘You are certain these mercenaries are no longer employed, lord treasurer?’

‘My spies inform me King Frederick desires to be rid of them as speedily as possible, highness.’

‘Even if they are willing to fight for us,’ said Mouzalon, ‘Sicily is hundreds of miles from Constantinople, which means weeks of marching. By the time they arrive, the Muslims will be knocking at the gates of this city.’

‘I am reliably informed that the commander of these mercenaries has his own fleet of ships,’ replied Timothy. ‘Transportation will not be a problem, general.’

Andronicus brought his hands together, rested his chin on his thumbs and closed his eyes. Silence filled the chamber as all eyes looked at the emperor, the heir of Constantine and the man responsible for defending the true Christian faith. Andronicus opened his eyes and looked at Timothy.

‘Very well, lord treasurer, use your spies to make an approach to the commander of these Catholic mercenaries. They are to relay a message from the Roman emperor that he has selected them to defend the city of Christ from the infidel Muslims.’

So it was that the Emperor of Constantinople, on the suggestion of a eunuch, took a decision that would have profound consequences for the empire he was desperately trying to preserve.

Chapter 1

Luca Baldi considered himself luckier than most. For one thing, he was still alive. For twenty years armies had criss-crossed Sicily fighting a war to control the island. In that time many villages, farms and towns had been destroyed, along with their populations. The great island still looked the same, with its woods of pine, oak, beech, willow, elm and poplars, and Sicily was still the main granary for Italy, just as it had been for over a thousand years. But the shipments of grain to the mainland were not what they were, a consequence of the war that had blighted the land, destroyed crops and conscripted peasants into armies, from which a great many did not return.

Sicily now contained many large and mostly empty expanses of land, which were either barren wastes or were given over to cattle and sheep farming. In theory, all the island’s land outside the towns was divided between the crown and powerful barons whose estates were administered from a large manor house called a casalis, around which were stretches of grassland and pasturage dotted with villages. But even the manor houses lay abandoned and derelict, their masters having been either killed or left together with their families for the mainland.

Luca neither cared about the causes of the war or who had been fighting it. He was a simple shepherd, though as a child his first job had been herding geese and goslings. He had then moved on to pigs, spending most days enduring their squealing and grunting, and sharing the filth they lived in. His father, also a shepherd, had insisted he also learn about the care of cows and horses, and a for a while he had even assisted one of the town’s blacksmiths in his forge, learning to make and fit horseshoes. But his purpose in life was to care for his family’s flock of sheep. To look after the lambs in the spring, and to shear the rams, ewes and yearlings. A shepherd’s life was idyllic in summer among the wildflowers and fresh air, and unceasingly bleak in winter when being lashed by wind and rain on the hillsides.

His hometown – Rometta – was a quaint place built on a hill a short distance from the port of Messina, around which were cultivated terraces growing lemons, oranges, grapes and olives, as well as accommodating grazing sheep.

The fierce heat of summer was a memory now, the autumn bringing more pleasant daytime temperatures and cooler nights. There was still the occasional hot wind but rains now replenished the streams and lakes so the hillsides around Rometta were green instead of brown. Like Luca, the town had been lucky during the war, its walls, which had been built by Arabs, had withstood numerous attacks and even helped beat off an army of French knights and soldiers. Luca had been a boy when he had thrown stones from the walls and had hurled a spear at a soldier scrambling from a scaling ladder trying to clamber on to the battlements. Even as a boy Luca had strength in his arms and shoulders and the spear had struck the man in the chest, the point going through his mail armour to penetrate his ribcage. He had seen the man grimace before he fell to the ground below. In the horror and chaos of that summer’s day, he had not given the fact he had killed a man much thought. He was just glad the attack had been beaten off, that his family had survived, and he was briefly feted as a hero afterwards. But the reality was he was lucky, as was his town, for which he gave thanks to God. He had seen the face of war and survived.

Now there was no more war.

‘If I was a wolf I would have eaten half your flock by now.’

Luca stopped his daydreaming to turn and see a beaming Jordi Rey creeping up on him. The dark-skinned Spaniard was crouching low but drew himself up to his full height when his friend faced him. They were roughly the same height, barring an inch or two, Jordi broader shouldered and more powerful in appearance than the sinewy Luca. His skin was darker in hue, though both had thick black hair and calloused hands, Luca’s through hard work, Jordi’s through war.

They had known each other for only a short time, but in that time had become friends. Jordi was a soldier in an army of mercenaries raised in far-away Catalonia, a region of northeast Spain, though Jordi had never seen his homeland. The mercenary army was made up of two parts, one of horsemen and the other, larger part made up of foot soldiers called Almogavars. They were given that odd name because they were the descendants of Spanish shepherds who had fought the Muslim Moors decades before. So effective were the Almogavars that the Spanish king offered their services, together with hundreds of Spanish horsemen, to the King of Sicily in his war against the French, though they did not come cheap. The mercenaries had travelled to Sicily twenty years before to fight against the French, a task they had excelled at. They were now led by a military adventurer named Roger de Flor, a part-Italian, part-German larger-than-life character and veteran commander. His deputy and second-in-command of the mercenary army was Jordi’s father, Sancho Rey.

Now there was peace, the Spanish Almogavars and horsemen had no one to fight and nothing to do. Jordi placed a sack on the ground.

‘I have brought you food and wine to stop you starving,’ he grinned, pulling bread, cheese, olives and a wineskin from the sack. ‘No wolves today?’

‘Only Spanish ones,’ answered Luca, accepting the wineskin and taking a swig before handing it back to Jordi.

He flopped down on the grass, his friend doing likewise, in front of them the flock of sheep in Luca’s care grazing on the hillside. Above them Rometta basked in autumn sunlight. Jordi drank some wine, tore off a chunk of bread from the large loaf he had brought and handed it to Luca.

‘How do you do it?’ he asked.

Luca looked surprised. ‘What?’

Jordi gave a lazy sweep of his arm. ‘This. Sitting on a hillside all day staring at sheep.’

‘It is not all idleness and relaxation, my friend. The winter is a bad time. In the summer, a shepherd replenishes his stock of stamina in preparation for the tests to come.’

He broke off a piece of cheese and stuffed it into his mouth, then washed it down with more wine.

‘What will you do now the war has ended?’

Jordi shrugged. ‘Return to Spain with the others, I suppose, though there seems some doubt regarding whether we will be welcome in Catalonia. One thing is certain, King Frederick wants us gone.’

Frederick, the third son of King Peter of Aragon, was beloved by the Almogavars, even though he wanted his kingdom of Sicily to be rid of the Spanish soldiers who had helped him win his throne. Generations before they had been shepherds like Luca, but now they lived and breathed war. They also retained a strong identity to their homeland. Jordi spoke excellent Italian, but he had told Luca that the Almogavars spoke in their native Catalan when conversing among themselves.

‘I will miss you, my friend,’ said Luca, now feeling the pleasant effects of the wine.

‘When we leave Sicily, you could come with us,’ retorted Jordi.

Luca was shocked. ‘Leave Rometta?’

Like the vast majority of peasants, his world comprised his hometown and the surrounding area. Travel was rarely undertaken, and the idea of leaving Sicily filled him with trepidation. He had never even visited the city of Messina, a mere eight miles to the east.

‘Why not?’ smiled Jordi. ‘You would make a good Almogavar, and you have already proved yourself in battle.’

Luca shuddered. ‘I was fighting for my life like a cornered animal. I have no wish to repeat the experience.’

Jordi ate some more cheese. ‘I could have a word with my father. He is always looking for new recruits.’

Luca had never met Sancho Rey but had heard stories of the Catalan who had a quick temper and a formidable reputation as a fighter.

‘I will think about it,’ answered Luca, evasively.

Jordi, like his friend, had seen only eighteen summers, but he had grown up among soldiers who had been fighting a bloody war; and his instincts were already finely honed when it came to sensing danger. His black eyes were following four riders trotting along the western road leading to Rometta, which would take them right past him, Luca, and the latter’s herd of sheep. Some of the animals had stopped their grazing to lift their heads to watch the horsemen.

‘Who’s this?’ asked Jordi, jumping to his feet.

Luca, now slightly light-headed, followed, squinting at the approaching horsemen. He saw the banner carried by one of the riders and nodded. He had seen the same colours flying from the town walls when the French had assaulted Rometta. They showed rows of horizontal red and white bands – the coat of arms of the Carafa family.

The riders slowed as they approached the flock, which began to move away from the four horses, further up the grassy slope. Luca recognised the type of mount the soldiers were riding. They were coursers: fast, light and strong beasts imported from North Africa and bred specifically to carry soldiers. Knights rode warhorses called destriers in battle, but while attending to their day-to-day business they also used a riding horse called a palfrey, which had a very smooth gait, and coursers. The lead rider slowed his horse and drew level to the shepherd and his Catalan friend.

Luca had seen the young lord several times in Rometta in recent months. If there was ever a man who resembled what a knight should look like it was Fabrizio Carafa. Tall, handsome with a strong jaw and piercing brown eyes, he also possessed the arrogance and rashness that characterised his social group. He peered at the two peasants and then pointed at a black sheep among the flock.

‘Is that your flock?’

‘Yes, lord,’ answered Luca.

‘Why is there a black sheep among it? Are you not aware of the town rules?’

Luca was indeed aware that shepherds were supposed to kill black lambs when they were born. Black sheep were believed to be unlucky and were linked to the devil. More practically, black wool could not by dyed and was thus almost worthless. More importantly, in a land that had been ravaged by war and where superstition was rife, such totems of misfortune and witchcraft were frowned upon. And Rometta’s rules clearly specified that black sheep were to be killed to avoid encouraging Satan ‘taking an interest’ in the town. But Luca liked his black sheep, and since he had for a short while been the hero of Rometta, no town official had raised the matter with him.

‘I’m waiting,’ snapped Fabrizio impatiently.

‘What business is it of yours?’ asked Jordi.

The noble’s top lip curled into a sneer.

‘What did you say, peasant?’ demanded the knight.

Jordi certainly looked like a commoner, with his sheepskin coat, called a zamarra, and his shoes comprising one piece of coarse leather tied on the soles of his feet by wool laces around his lower legs. They were called abarka and were worn by all the Almogavars, though Fabrizio probably did not know that. His three companions stared disbelievingly at the oaf who had just spoken to their liege lord in such a disrespectful manner.

‘I am no peasant,’ said Jordi defiantly. ‘Be on your way before I teach you a lesson you will not forget.’

Luca, appalled his friend had spoken to an anointed knight in such a way, jumped between them, holding up his hands to Fabrizio.

‘Too much wine loosens the tongue, lord. He meant no disrespect.’

Fabrizio’s noble nostrils flared. To a knight, respect was closely tied to honour, and honour was everything. To be spoken to in such a disrespectful manner could not go unanswered, even if there were no witnesses to the insult. But Fabrizio was accompanied by three of his men, who would report back to their comrades and anyone else with ears to listen that their lord had been insulted. Next to religion, honour was the most important aspect of knighthood. It was like a delicate flower that required nurturing and protecting. Fabrizio ignored Luca’s pleadings and focused on his companion.

Luca was alarmed, and rightly so. The man on the fine brown horse was not only well armed and equipped, he was also a knight. A man whose life was dedicated to war. Whereas Luca had spent his childhood years attending to animals, Fabrizio would have been a page – a boy servant to a lord. A glorified servant but one who nevertheless learned to ride a horse and whose character, manners and sense of loyalty were moulded by his master to direct him to follow the knightly path. At the age of fifteen he became a squire, a knight’s personal apprentice. He was taught not only how to care for weapons and armour but to put them on and use them. His master practised fighting techniques with his squire and the latter followed the knight into battle. And when he had fully mastered the skills to do so, the squire became a knight himself. And this knight was freshly made and brimming with the virtues of his order.

Fabrizio drew his expensive sword and pointed it at Jordi.

‘Arrest him, and the shepherd.’

His men began dismounting but before they had done so, Jordi hurled the wineskin at Fabrizio, who reacted instinctively to cut the leather container in half with a deft sideways cut of his sword. Jordi also reacted quickly, launching himself at the knight, grabbing his sword arm with his left hand, yanking it towards him prior to slamming his fist into Fabrizio’s handsome face. The head was the only part of the lord’s body that could safely be struck with a fist as his torso and limbs were heavily protected. Under his red surcoat he wore a long-sleeved mail hauberk and his legs were protected by quilted cuisses over his thighs and knees. Domed iron poleyns covered his knees and hardened leather greaves shielded his shins.

The knight, dazed, dropped his sword and toppled from his saddle when Jordi punched him again, this time in the windpipe. He fell heavily on his back, winding him and rendering him unable to rise. A triumphant Jordi stood over him, laughing impiously at the crestfallen young lord.

Luca’s jaw dropped as he stared in horror at the scene, and was rendered unconscious when the blunt end of a spear was struck against the side of his head. When he regained consciousness, he discovered his wrists had been shackled and his head throbbed from a splitting headache. He was also aware of being in a cold room with stone walls, a closed thick wooden door and iron bars over a single window in one of the walls. His mouth was dry and he found it difficult to focus his mind.

‘The hero awakes.’

He heard Jordi’s mocking voice and felt comforted, his friend helping