by Martin Lake
OUTCASTS
Copyright © Martin Lake 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © Martin Lake 2011. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission of the author.
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BOOKS BY MARTIN LAKE
NOVELS
The Flame of Resistance
Triumph and Catastrophe
Blood of Ironside
In Search of Glory
Land of Blood and Water
Blood Enemy
Wolves of war
A Love Most Dangerous
Very Like a Queen
A Dance of Pride and Peril
The Artful Dodger
SHORT STORIES
For King and Country
The Big School
The Guy Fawkes Contest
Mr Toad’s Wedding
Mr Toad to the Rescue
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For Adam
JERUSALEM 1185
The young man sprawled in the dirt, desperate to avoid the spears that stabbed towards him.
'Get out, you filth,' cried an old man from the edge of the baying crowd.
The spears prodded once more, driving the young man to scurry away like a crab in the sand. He turned, crouching low, and his powerful arms knocked away the points to prevent them harming him.
Beyond the spearmen a crowd of citizens watched in fascinated dread.
'This is shameful,' one man cried, his eyes wide in horror. 'He should be honoured for what he did, not reviled in this way.'
'You are right,' said his companion, an aged Greek merchant. 'But tell me Bernard, would you allow such as him to enter your inn?'
He turned to watch the bitter scene unfold.
'Get out you filth,' cried the old man once again and this time his cry was taken up by others in the crowd, their tight throats yelping like street-dogs.
The young man staggered to his feet, shielded his aching eyes from the burning sun. He saw a young woman in the crowd bend to the ground. She straightened, weighed a heavy stone in her hand and threw it at him. Her aim was good and the stone smashed into his cheek, tearing at his lacerated skin.
This seemed to act as a signal. Dozens of stones flew from the hands of the onlookers, pelting him with vindictive fury. He did his best to shield his head from the missiles and staggered out of their reach.
'He should be allowed to join the Order of Saint Lazarus,' said the inn-keeper. 'He was a soldier of the King.'
The old Greek shook his hand. 'True. But he was not a knight. Even lepers, it appears, are ranked by birth and blood.'
The young man halted a short distance from the crowd and stared back at them. One of the spearmen stepped from the ranks and approached him, flinging down a bundle of white linen clothing and a bell before hurrying back to his fellows.
'Get away from us,' cried the voices from the crowd. 'Get away, you filth.'
'I shall do so,' the young man called. 'I have no desire to live my life with you.'
He stooped to the bundle of clothes, and turning, limped off towards the desert.
The crowd hooted in derision.
CHAPTER 1
ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES
The David Gate in Jerusalem June 1187
John and Simon Ferrier climbed up the steep track towards the city. John felt he might die at any moment. The sun poured out of a clear blue sky, an intense, implacable heat which seemed intent on beating him to his knees. He uncorked his flask and sipped at the water. It tasted of iron and gave no relief to the desert of his mouth.
‘Nearly there,’ he gasped to his cousin.
Simon gave him a blank stare.
The last mile was the worst. John forced his eyes to peer through the glare but no matter how often he looked he appeared to be no closer. It seemed the city would stay forever beyond his reach.
Could that be, he wondered? Was Jerusalem so holy a place that those unworthy would never attain its bliss?
The two men lurched together. The contact gave them renewed purpose and their pace quickened. Finally, they reached the city and stumbled into the deep shade beneath its walls.
‘At last,’ said Simon.
‘Ten months,’ John said. ‘Ten months. But we’ve got here.’
Just outside the gate to the city a cistern had been placed for the relief of pilgrims and their horses. The water was brackish and oily, strewn with wisps of straw and dead insects. They plunged their heads into it and swallowed great draughts. In England it would have been too warm to drink; now it was like water from an icy stream.
Eventually they drank their fill and took up their staffs. Hearts hammering with excitement they strode into the city.
Crowds of people lined the road, jostling for position. The sheer numbers pressed the cousins back until their legs slammed against a stone shrine. The noise of the crowd was almost unbearable.
Two small boys squeezed behind their legs and clambered onto the shrine.
They yelled to each other in joy and excitement.
‘What’s happening?’ John asked them.
'King Guy,' cried the youngest boy, 'King Guy is going to war.'
Almost immediately a trumpet called from deep within the city. A heavy and regular beat sounded in the distance. It grew louder and soon the reverberation jarred the ground beneath their feet.
A huge cheer rose from the crowd and the children shrieked with delight.
Riding down the cobbled street came two lines of knights, pennants high, bright armour glistening in the sun. The knights in the line nearest to them wore white coats emblazoned with stark red crosses, the others wore red surcoats with white crosses.
‘Who are they?’ John asked.
‘Knights of the Temple and the Hospital,’ cried the youngest boy. ‘I am for the Templars but Claude-Yusuf is for the Hospitallers.’
'Gerard is too young to know better,' explained the older boy with a shrug.
Five yards behind the knights rode two men on great horses.
The older man was a red-head with rough beard and close-cropped hair. He sat forward in his saddle as if hoping by his stance to push it faster. His eyes were wide and shining and he glanced about him with an exultant look.
‘Who is that?’ asked John. He did not say but he was disturbed by the look of the man.
‘Raynald of Châtillon,’ said an old man in the crowd. He leaned closer. ‘If you are wise you would make no comment about him, no matter what anyone says, good or ill.’
John and Simon exchanged wary looks.
‘And the other?’ John stared at the man who rode beside Raynald.
He was tall and slim, with thick, flowing hair and neat trimmed beard. His face seemed carved from stone; handsome and dignified, with full lips and a strong chin. His eyes were stern and imperious and he glanced about him at the crowd acknowledging their cheers with a nod of his head.
'That is Guy of Lusignan,' said the old man.
‘King Guy, King Guy,’ cried Gerard. ‘Hooray for King Guy.’
The king, hearing the cry, searched out the owner of the voice and held out his hand. Gerard gasped and reached
up for the king’s hand. Guy took it, shook it in a sign of triumph and smiled.
Delighted, Gerard grinned at Claude-Yusuf. 'King Guy has shaken my hand,' he cried, 'King Guy has shaken my hand.'
Behind the king came a compact body of noblemen who looked neither to right nor left. They were followed by long lines of knights and foot-soldiers. The boys became even more excited and Claude-Yusuf began to yell at the top of his voice.
One of the soldiers heard his voice and turned, searching the crowd. His face lit up and he waved with wild enthusiasm. He called out to the boys but could not be heard.
'Goodbye, Father,' Claude-Yusuf cried, 'goodbye.' But his voice was lost in the tumult.
Eventually, the last company marched through the gate and disappeared down the road that had brought John and Simon to the city.
The huge gates were winched shut. The crowd, which moments before had roared with joy at the departing army, gradually fell silent. People turned and looked at their neighbours, elation fading from their faces. The throng began to disperse. Those who remained looked forlorn, almost embarrassed. A pained silence descended upon them.
John and Simon gazed at the crowd in confusion. It was the first time they had paid them any attention and they were shocked.
The men were swarthy and heavily bearded, a few with turbans. The women wore veils and their arms shimmered with silver.
They can’t be our people, John thought. Since landing in the Holy Land the cousins had paid little heed to the locals. They had assumed that Jerusalem would be full of Europeans. It appeared they were wrong. The people here looked unlike anybody they had ever seen.
There was a sudden commotion behind them and they turned to see what was happening.
A priest with pale face and livid eyes had grabbed the eldest boy by the hair.
‘You dare to stand upon a sacred shrine,’ he cried, slapping the boy across the face.
Simon stepped forward. ‘Leave him alone,’ he cried. ‘He’s doing no harm.
‘Infidels must not pollute this shrine,’ said the priest.
‘I’m not an infidel,’ said the boy.
‘Liar,’ said the priest. He clenched his fist still tighter and shook the boy’s head. ‘What’s your name, infidel?’
‘Claude-Yusuf. My father is a soldier. He’s just marched off with the King.’
The priest slapped the boy once again. ‘A half-breed. Worse than an infidel. I’ll have you whipped.’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Simon.
‘Can’t I?’ The priest held Simon’s gaze. ‘I think you’ll find I can.’
‘He’s done nothing wrong.’
‘He’s a half-breed. Whelped on a Saracen mother. I’d slaughter the lot of them.’
Both boys began to wail.
John had not interfered until this point but he could stand by no longer. He stepped up to the priest but Simon saw and blocked his way, preventing him from reaching the priest.
‘I have journeyed from England to Jerusalem,’ Simon told the priest, ‘and in all those miles I've never seen such unchristian behaviour.’
He prised open the priest’s fingers.
The priest’s eyes narrowed. ‘I shall remember you, infidel-lover,’ he said. He strode off, his curses carrying on the air.
The boys wiped their noses.
‘Are you all right?’ John asked the older boy.
‘Yes.’
‘I am as well,’ said his friend. ‘My name is Gerard. Are you pilgrims?’
John nodded. ‘We are. We're from England.’
The boys exchanged looks, this news of much greater interest than the recent assault upon them.
‘Is England in France?’ Gerard asked.
John shook his head. ‘Certainly not.’
Simon bent down to the boys. ‘You seem to like soldiers. You were watching the army march past.’
‘Claude-Yusuf is for the Hospitallers,’ Gerard said once again. ‘I’m for the Templars. I shall be one when I get older.’
‘What about you, Claude-Yusuf?’ John asked. ‘Do you want to be a Hospitaller?
The boy did not answer. He stared at the ground and twisted his toes in the dust.
Simon shrugged and held a penny up to the boys. ‘Thank you for arranging such a magnificent welcome to the city,’ he said. ‘We are going to stay at the Pilgrim Hostel. Do you know where it is?’
‘It’s a long way from here,’ Gerard said.
'A long way,' said Claude-Yusuf. ‘We know a better place.’
John raised an eyebrow, suspecting some trick.
‘The best inn in Jerusalem,' Gerard continued. 'It's much better than the Hostel. Good beds, good drink and good food.’
‘It’s close by,’ added Claude-Yusuf.
Simon laughed. ‘Then let’s take a look at this marvel of an inn.’
The two boys took the cousins’ hands and led them into a maze of alleys. John feared they would soon be lost but in a few moments they found themselves at the inn.
‘See,’ said Claude-Yusuf, ‘I said it was close.’
After the glare of the streets the inn looked dark. Better yet, it was cool. A large room stretched in front of them with rough tables and benches dotted around in an ordered manner. At the far end of the room a door led into a courtyard with small trees and shrubs. Along the wall ran a counter stacked with barrels of ale and bottles of wine. A woman stood behind this, cutting bread.
‘We’ve brought some pilgrims,’ Gerard called. ‘From England.’
‘From England?’ The woman smiled and handed each of the boys a slice of bread.
‘You're good boys,’ she said, glancing over towards John and Simon.
Her face was oval, with olive coloured skin and dark brown eyes. Her hair was a tawny blonde, little darker than the colour of straw. Two dimples played on either side of a tiny mouth. John had never seen anything as lovely. He cast his eyes downward, seeking to banish the thought from his mind.
Simon smiled at the woman.
'My name is Simon Ferrier,' he said. 'And this is my cousin, John.'
‘Welcome,’ the woman said. ‘You must be tired. Can I offer you food and drink?’
Simon nodded enthusiastically but John shook his head.
‘Not yet, I beg,’ he said. His eyes remained fixed on the floor. ‘My cousin Simon may wish to eat but before I do I must climb the hill of Calvary and see where Our Lord was crucified.’
The woman gave a fleeting smile and then frowned, wondering how best to answer.
‘To see that would indeed be a miracle,’ called a man from the courtyard. He was of slight and wiry build, dark skinned with curly hair, a moustache and a wide grin. His apron was covered in red and brown stains, some of them still wet.
Perched upon his shoulder was a small girl about five years of age. He slid her to the floor and came towards them.
‘There is no hill of Calvary,’ the man continued. ‘It was flattened and a church built around it.’
John was shocked. ‘So we can’t see Calvary?’
‘Not a trace of it.’
‘And the cross?’
‘Oh you can see that; or a bit of it at least. It’s in the church. There’s a tiny fragment of timber buried in a cross of gold.’
John frowned. ‘Gold?’
‘The churchmen felt that Christ would have wanted gold.’
The woman sighed and shook her head as if in warning.
‘The cross isn't in the church now, father,’ Gerard said. ‘The army took it and marched with it at the front of the column, the very front, just behind King Guy. The army took the cross to go to war.’
‘Did they, indeed?’ The man looked troubled. ‘So they stake everything on this attack,’ he said almost to himself.
The woman approached the two pilgrims.
‘The Church of the Sepulchre is wonderful,' she said, 'but is locked at dusk.’ She gave a thoughtful look towards John. ‘Surely just your coming to Jerusalem will pleas
e God enough without the need to starve yourself.’
She saw his lips move, muttering troubled words to himself. The sight made her heart ache and without intending to she touched him fleetingly upon the wrist. He looked up and found her eyes staring into his. His heart lifted. The dark stain upon his mind began to thin as if by a morning breeze.
‘Well if the church is locked that settles it,’ said Simon, flinging down his pack. ‘We’ll take ale please. The road from Jaffa is very dusty.
They sat and watched while the woman poured two flagons with foaming ale. The dark man wiped his hands upon his apron, picked up a jug of wine and drew up a stool.
‘Welcome to our inn,’ he said. ‘My name is Bernard Montjoy. We have good food and there’s a clean chamber with a bed and window.’
‘We brought them, father,’ cried Gerard. ‘Claude-Yusuf and me.’
Bernard smiled, tousled his son’s hair and gave a wink to Claude-Yusuf.
‘We want food and a bed,’ said John.
‘Excellent,’ said Bernard. ‘I’ll see to your room and my wife will bring you food. Agnes is the best cook in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.’
The woman blushed and smiled.
John’s heart sank. She was married.
They ate a meal of the finest bread they had ever tasted, a slice of ham, some sharp and salty cheese and a honeycomb. When Agnes came to clear away their plates, John told her of the incident with the priest at the shrine.
‘It doesn’t happen often,’ she said.
‘The priest called the boy a half-breed.’
‘My brother Robert married a Muslim woman who had converted to Christianity,' Agnes explained. 'Claude-Yusuf is their child. They are accepted here in Jerusalem but some newcomers from the west despise them.’
She gave a curious glance at John who looked shocked at this news. He shook his head and mumbled to himself. Of course, he was a newcomer too.
'It sounds a little like England,' Simon said. 'Some of the pure-bred Normans think that John is a half-breed because his mother is English.'
'I don't understand,' Agnes said. 'Aren't you cousins?'