His contempt for the Crusade in general and the leaders of this southerly contingent in particular was abysmal, nor did he seem to hold the Church and her clergy in especially high regard.
“My good Marque’s Sebastidn, I have almost forty years and I have good use of them made—five universities in as many countries, as well as my other travels. My father had the goodness to live long and to be generous of stipends to his wandering heir, when he could not sell his sword for his keep.”
“You have been a mercenary, then, Baron Melchoro?” asked Foster.
The Portuguese smiled. “Not really, no. But in some parts of this huge world men must swing sword in order to survive, so why not get paid for it, I always held. I have fought yellow Kalmyks in the plains of Russland, brown idolaters on the borders of Persia, black, pagan maneaters in Africa, and red Indios in New Spain. I have slain or maimed many men, but only because they would have done the like to me, not through any love of bringing about suffering and death, nor yet to advance the spread of a Church I have come to feel is as thoroughly rotten as a week-old summer corpse.”
“Then why are you here, in England, as a Crusader?” demanded Foster.
“Duty to my overlord.” Melchoro shrugged languidly. “Duque Henrique would only excuse Conde Joao on the condition that he provide two hundred men-at-arms and at least four noble vassals. He, being a sporting man, called us all to his seat, told us of the Duque’s commands, and then we diced.” He shook his head ruefully. “Gambling, alas, is not my forte.”
“And so, you are a Crusader,” stated Foster.
“Was a Crusader, and a grudging one, at that But now, thanks to you, my good friend, I am a paroled captive of war, and my thanks to you will be a goodly sum of ransom.” He smiled broadly, his bright eyes dancing.
Turning in his saddle, the Bar6n addressed Nugai, who rode silently behind, never far from Foster’s side, day or night, march or battle or camp. “Vahdah, pahzhahloostah.”
Wordlessly, the Tartar unslung his waterbottle and passed it forward.
When he had slaked his thirst and returned the canteen, the Bar6n commented, “Khazans like yours make the very best of bodyguard-servants; your overlord must esteem you most highly to give you such a treasure. Many of them are better at treating wounds and sicknesses than the most noted of our leeches and they are equally adept at compounding poisons, so they make fine assassins, as well. Would that I could afford to import a skilled Khazan, but what with sons to arm and fit out, daughters to dower and lands to maintain …” He ended with a deep sigh.
“Well, look here, man,” Foster began, “I don’t want to beggar you. I can wait for the ransom or—”
Melchoro’s merry laughter rang out. “Ho, ho, none of my gold will go for my ransom, good sir, not a bit of it I be an old fox, and sly, ho, ho. The esteemed Conde Joao agreed ere I sailed—in writing, mind you, and legally witnessed—to pay my ransom if I was captured or to settle a largish sum on my family if I was slain.
“Nonetheless”—his tone took on a solemnity and he reached over to squeeze Foster’s gauntleted hand resting on his pommel—”your charity is much appreciated, mein Herr Markgraf. Had I entertained any doubts of your nobility, they were dispelled; you are a gentleman born, and I shall ever be proud to call you friend.”
Later, in camp, Wolfgang questioned the Bar6n for several hours, but they conversed in German and Foster understood very little of it Later still, however, with the King present, all spoke English.
Melchoro sat at his ease at the long table, obviously unabashed by the royal presence. When called upon, after Wolfgang’s longish introduction, he sipped delicately from the winecup, then arose and began. He gave first the numbers of the various contingents and their nationalities.
“As regards the great captains, Your Majesty, Principe Alberto is a stiff-necked, supercilious fool, more fanatically religious then even the Cardinal, and his concepts of troopmarshaling and battle are impossibly-archaic. Personally, he is brave to the point of stupidity, but no one has ever been able, apparently, to disabuse him of the notion that modes of warfare have not changed at all in the last five hundred years. In his closed mind, the crowning glory of any battle is the all-or-nothing charge of heavy cavalry in full-armor. And on more than one occasion, he has led his hidalgos in riding down his own infantry to get more quickly at the enemy . . . which makes his pikemen and musketeers very nervous when they know he is behind them.