Outcasts

by Martin Lake

  He grinned. ‘I do. That may be why I am asking the question. I like them a lot, more than an inn-keeper should like his guests.’

  ‘That is because they come from somewhere far-away and exotic. England sounds so exciting. Jerusalem is boring and you hanker for adventure.’

  He grabbed her by the waist and stared into her eyes. ‘I have all the adventure I need just living with you.’

  Agnes blushed at his words and a tiny smile grew upon her lips.

  'I like you saying this,' she said. 'But I sometimes wonder if you don't yearn for a little more adventure than I can provide.'

  'Not in the slightest,' he said, pulling her close.

  Later that day John sat in the courtyard enjoying the last of the day's sunshine. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sky, enjoying the warmth bathing his skin. His lips felt dry and hot and he licked them slowly.

  He did not hear any noise but he suddenly became aware of a presence in the courtyard. His first thought was that it was one of the boys.

  But then he knew. He knew it was Agnes.

  He opened his eyes and turned to look at her.

  She was leaning in the doorframe, a cloth and a plate in her hand. She must be enjoying the sun as well, he thought.

  His heart quickened. Or perhaps she had been watching me.

  'I didn't mean to disturb you,' she said softly.

  He shook his head.

  'You didn't. I wasn't asleep.'

  'You looked very peaceful.'

  He thought as if the breath was being squeezed from his lungs.

  'I was just thinking, just dreaming, day-dreaming rather.'

  She laughed, a little tinkling sound which almost made him shiver.

  'I do that,' she said. 'Or I do whenever I get a minute's peace. I'm afraid that isn't often.'

  He gazed at her but did not answer. His mind struggled to find something to say but every phrase he formed seemed inane.

  The sun had moved so that half her face was in full sunlight and half in shade. The branches of the old olive tree flickered shadows across her face. Almost like a bridal veil, he thought. His gaze was caught by the line where light and shadow met. Her features, normally so bright in his imagination, were dimmed there but more alluring for that.

  'You look red,' she said.

  He touched his hands to his cheek and blushed even redder.

  'It's the sun,' he said. 'My skin isn’t used to it.'

  She smiled. He had no idea what the smile meant. He guessed she may have realised that the colour on his face came from within.

  'John,' called a familiar voice from within the inn.

  He ignored Simon's call, hoping that he would not find him and go away.

  'John,' he called again. 'Where are you? I've got something to tell you.'

  Still John ignored his call.

  Agnes smiled and glanced at the ground before looking up at him once again.

  'Aren't you going to answer your cousin?' she asked. 'He sounds keen to find you.'

  John nodded and went even redder. He cursed his cousin.

  'I'm in the courtyard,' he called.

  Simon appeared in the doorway and took in the scene. A grin which looked knowing and lascivious broke upon his face.

  'I wasn't interrupting anything?' he asked innocently.

  Agnes shook her head.

  'Of course not,' said John quickly. He got to his feet. 'What did you want?'

  Simon put his hand to his mouth as if struggling to remember. 'Do you know, I've completely forgotten.'

  He gave a courtly bow to Agnes, winked at John and went back into the inn.

  Agnes turned and gazed at John.

  'I'd better go after him,' he said.

  'I think you had,' she answered. 'Before he gets any more strange ideas.'

  John mumbled incoherently and walked into the gloom of the inn.

  The next morning the Ferriers climbed up to the battlements by the Golden Gate at the eastern part of the city.

  John had spent a restless night, tormented by the sight of Agnes in the courtyard and tormented even more by his thoughts concerning her. It was imperative that he find some sense of salvation, however feeble.

  They walked north for a few paces until John stopped and looked towards the east. His hands grasped the stone of the walls as though he was holding on to them for fear of falling.

  'The Mount of Olives,' he said, in a voice made thick with emotion.

  The sun shone on the trees which crammed the slopes of the mount. It looked a rich and wholesome place. John felt he should avert his eyes from this and stare down instead to Gethsemane to try to snatch a glimpse of Christ’s agony the night before the crucifixion.

  He bent his head and gasped.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ he said in surprise.

  ‘The mountain?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No Gethsemane. I thought it would look bleak and awful, tortured by the memory of Christ’s anguish.’

  ‘You seem disappointed.’

  ‘I am.’ He shook his head. ‘I came to Jerusalem to seek redemption for my sin. How can I do this when the city is rich and pleasant, the sights a marvel and a wonder?’

  Simon drummed his fingers upon the battlements. ‘Perhaps you are misguided John. Perhaps you can get redemption from things of beauty as much as from the ugly and the bitter.’

  John shook his head angrily. ‘Beautiful things are a danger, the snares of Satan.’

  ‘Yet God put them on the Earth.’

  ‘As a test.’

  Simon sighed and closed his eyes. ‘I can’t agree with you, John. Beauty is to be enjoyed and loved. Even Christ chose to spend his last night on Earth in the garden below. Who are you to be different?’

  ‘I am a sinner. Christ was not.’

  ‘We are all sinners.’ He smiled. ‘I for one would very much like to sin with a certain woman.’

  John straightened. ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘You know.’ He paused and grinned at John. ‘The lovely Agnes.’

  John did not answer. His mind raced, his thoughts skittering like starlings in a flock. ‘She is married,’ he said at last, coldly.

  ‘That does not stop her being beautiful.’

  ‘You must not think such a thing. She belongs to another.’

  ‘That does not stop her being beautiful.’

  ’She is the mother of two children.’

  ‘That does not stop her being beautiful.’

  ‘We are guests in her home for God’s sake.’

  ‘That gives me opportunity. And by the way, you just blasphemed.’

  John was speechless with rage. He turned away from Simon. Christ help me, he thought, Christ help me. Simon agreed to come on this pilgrimage with me, he has been my loyal and constant companion. Christ help me, Christ help him.

  His thundering heart began to calm. He turned back to Simon and held out his hand.

  Simon stared at it. ‘What is this for?’

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘You offer me your hand as if you had done me wrong.’

  John hesitated, desperately thinking of something to say to hide the truth. ‘I offer you my hand because I love you and I do not wish you to seduce the lady Agnes.’

  Simon smiled.

  John could not tell whether it was a smile of friendship or mockery. Or perhaps of gratification that he had guessed the state of affairs correctly.

  After a brief moment Simon took John’s hand.

  They arrived back at the inn in time for the noon-day meal. They were accosted by a blind man sitting by the entrance. John pulled out his purse and began to search for a suitable coin. Simon took the opportunity to slip straight into the inn.

  As soon as he entered Bernard called him over.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Simon,’ he said. ‘Some English pilgrims have arrived and they are drinking like they’ve never seen ale before. I’ve told them to quieten down but they don’t understand. Will you talk to
them?’

  Simon strolled over and listened for a while before returning. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t understand them. They speak English.’

  ‘But you are English.’

  ‘Yes. But I only speak French. Both my parents are of Norman stock. John may be able to help, his mother was English. He can speak the language like a native though he pretends not to.’

  Bernard frowned. ‘Is speaking English something to be ashamed of?’

  ‘It’s nothing to be proud of.’

  Bernard shook his head. He saw John walk in and hurried over to seek his aid. Simon could see that John was reluctant but in the end he agreed and went over to the Englishmen and spoke to them. There were lots of jeers and cat-calls but, nevertheless, they quietened down and even agreed to pay for the ale they had already consumed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Bernard said. ‘Some of us in Jerusalem speak Arabic as well as French but I had not realised that it was the same in other lands.’

  ‘England is a bit like Jerusalem,’ John said. ‘It was conquered by foreigners and now the English feel like strangers in their own land.’

  ‘He always says this,’ Simon said. ‘But it doesn’t stop him acting like a Norman when it suits him. Nor his brother Alan who is one of Prince Richard’s right-hand men. And you can be sure that Richard has little time for the English.’

  'So are you English or Norman?' Bernard asked.

  'Our ancestor came over with the first King Henry,' John said. 'He was an ordinary man, a blacksmith. He never called himself English though. His son, our grandfather was the first to do so.

  Bernard shook his head and pointed out the loud party of English pilgrims. 'And what would they think of you?' he asked.

  'They would think we were their betters,' Simon said.

  'But they'd be wrong,' John said. 'We are no richer than they and have no greater power or influence.'

  'But we speak French, cousin,' Simon said. 'And that still makes a difference.'

  At that point John saw Alexius, the money-changer, and pointed him out, anxious to change the topic of conversation.

  Alexius beckoned them over. ‘Englishmen, if you have no other plans, please join me. I leave tomorrow for Constantinople and may not see you again.’

  ‘Constantinople?’

  ‘Yes, I go to an important meeting. I am part of a family enterprise which trades across the Empire and the Muslim lands. My brother summons us all to account every three years.’

  Agnes brought two more plates containing a rich stew with a strange aromatic smell.

  ‘What is this?’ John asked.

  ‘Goat cooked in spices,’ she answered.

  ‘It looks lovely.’

  ‘I wonder what it tastes like.’ Simon muttered when she had left.

  ‘It tastes very good,’ said Alexius. ‘Agnes is a wonderful cook. And she has a lovely arse.’

  John stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘I can say this,’ said Alexius self-indulgently. ‘I am an old man and young people allow me liberties. Perhaps they shouldn’t.’

  Agnes returned and placed a jug of ale upon the table. ‘Young people also have good hearing,’ she said. She grabbed a lock of the old Greek’s hair and shook it.

  ‘Ah,’ Alexius said, feigning dismay, ‘I am found out.’

  ‘You will be thrown out if my husband hears.’

  Alexius chuckled. ‘He comes now, Princess. Here, Bernard. I was just telling our English friends that Agnes has a beautiful arse.’

  Bernard came over and gazed at his wife. Then he leant close to Alexius. ‘She has. But unlike me, who can see her arse in all its naked glory, you can see it only through her skirts.’

  ‘How do you know I have not seen her exactly as you do?’ Alexius asked, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Because I know that you are a creature of lies and fantasies.’ He tapped the old man lightly upon the cheek and took a sip of his wine.

  Alexius laughed, his eyes, twinkling with mischief.

  Bernard glanced at the Ferriers. ‘How do you come to be eating with this old scoundrel?’

  ‘He changed some money for us,’ Simon said.

  ‘What?’ Bernard gave a sharp look at the old man.

  Alexius opened his hands wide. ‘The boys were with them. I realised they were your guests. They got a fair price.’

  Bernard drew up a stool. ‘See that they continue to do so.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alexius said. ‘After all, they may be your relatives.’

  ‘Relatives?’ John glanced at Bernard.

  ‘Not mine,’ Bernard said. ‘I'm a Frank through and through.'

  He grinned and bent closer to them.

  'But my wife,' he continued, 'is descended from an Englishman; her great-grandfather, Robert. He came to the Holy Land with a man called Edgar who claimed he was the rightful king of England. Edgar was the heir of the ancient Saxon kings but William the Conqueror stole the throne from him. Family legend says that Edgar was Robert's father, though he did not realise this.'

  John and Simon exchanged quick glances. They had heard a similar tale themselves but had thought it a fabrication.

  ‘And Robert settled and raised a family,' said Alexius. 'Here in Jerusalem.'

  ‘He had a child,' said Bernard. 'Agnes’ grandfather.’

  He gave a self-satisfied smile.

  ‘But that was not the end of the story,' said Alexius. 'Robert was captured by the Saracens. They must have realised he was the son of King Edgar even if his father didn't.'

  ‘Whether or no,' said Bernard, 'Robert was killed for not renouncing his faith.’ He made a cutting motion against his neck.

  'He was true to his faith,' said Alexius.

  ‘He was a bloody fool,' said Bernard. 'What does religion matter compared to your own neck? The Saracens would have welcomed him, a man of his blood. He might have even become an emir.'

  Agnes had returned with a beaker of wine and a plate of food for her husband.

  'That old story,' she said with a smile. 'That's all it is, a story.'

  'Some stories contain a kernel of truth,' said Alexius. 'Is not your own brother, Robert, named for your ancestor?'

  'If this story had any truth I wouldn't be running around cooking food for old men and a hungry husband. I'd be living in a palace and sleeping in a bed of finest feathers.'

  She put the plate down in front of her husband.

  'Wonderful,' Bernard said, wiping his hands upon his filthy apron and bending to his plate with enthusiasm. He blew a kiss at Agnes who raised her eyes to the heavens.

  'With a headboard of cedar wood,' she said as she went back to the kitchen.

  Alexius passed Bernard a chunk of bread. ‘What news, dear friend?’

  Bernard looked around the room. ‘It's quiet, very quiet. There are pilgrims true enough but it doesn’t make up for the army leaving the city. My takings are down.’

  ‘You know where to come if you have need.'

  ‘Thank you.’ Bernard dipped his bread in the stew, turning it slowly to collect the juices. He glanced up at Alexius with a questioning look.

  Alexius raised his hand to stop him from saying more. He turned towards the cousins. ‘And how do the English like Jerusalem?’ he asked.

  John paused. ‘It is not as I imagined it to be.’

  ‘And how did you imagine it?’

  ‘I’m not sure now. More ancient, more holy.’

  Alexius laughed. ‘It feels more holy now than when the troops are quartered here. Much quieter at any rate.’ He helped himself to more wine.

  ‘You pilgrims think that Jerusalem is a place where angels fly and saints tread,’ said Bernard. ‘In fact it’s where different worlds collide and it breeds both saints and demons.’

  Alexius placed his hand upon John's arm. ‘Bernard is right. As a pilgrim you must find grace where you can. It does not reside in the stone walls of Jerusalem. Perhaps it resides in your own heart.’

  John felt hi
s eyes moisten at the words and bent to his meal to hide it. Can he read my soul he wondered? Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alexius nod to himself as if he now realised the answer to a question.

  ‘And what of your news, old goat?’ Bernard asked.

  Alexius stared out of the door at the streets. ‘My scales are frenzied, Bernard. The exchange is in turmoil, prices careering like wild bulls.’ He picked up his wine and peered into it as it seeking to find something within.

  ‘This is just a symptom,' he continued. 'Rumour is bleak.’

  ‘What rumour?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Of anguish and of wars,’ Alexius answered.

  ‘The day we came to the city,’ Simon said, ‘we saw an army leaving by the same gate. What was it?’

  ‘That was the army of Jerusalem,’ Bernard said. ‘Every last warrior in the kingdom. Twelve hundred knights and twenty thousand foot-soldiers.’

  John frowned. ‘And where are all these men of blood going?’

  ‘To defeat Saladin,’ Bernard answered. ‘Or be defeated by him.’

  CHAPTER 4

  THE END OF THE ARMY

  The Field of Hattin

  The Frankish nobles stared at the carnage.

  The plain was covered with the corpses of men-at-arms. The loss of foot-soldiers was to be expected, if not on this scale. What horrified the nobles was that a thousand knights had also been slain.

  King Guy glanced at the scatter of men close by. They were overcome by thirst, wounds and despair. They could fight no longer.

  The sun tormented those left alive, especially the wounded. Their groans carried far across the plain. Only the carrion birds were not dismayed by the sound. They circled patiently, waiting until the dying gave up the struggle and the battle-field grew still.

  There was one strength still remaining to the Christians. Raymond of Tripoli had maintained command of a few of his troops, a hundred in all, knights and foot-soldiers.

  The King called across the heaps of dead, commanding him to attack the Saracen army.

  Raymond looked across the field of dead; disbelieving, despairing. His dislike of Guy was deep-seated. He had long argued against his determination to force war upon Saladin. But he never thought the man's folly would lead to this.