by Martin Lake
Bernard gasped. ‘Mule?’
The leper nodded.
There was a long silence. Finally Bernard spoke once more.
‘Yours is a sad story, Matthew,’ he said.
John turned towards Bernard, his brows furrowed in question.
‘It is better if Matthew tells you,’ he said.
Matthew sighed and made himself more comfortable.
‘It is a simple story,’ he said. ‘And can be told in moments or in a lifetime.’
‘We have all night,’ John said.
‘Then let me tell you about King Baldwin. He was a young man, a man of great wisdom and promise. When he was still heir to the throne it was discovered that he was a leper. Yet this did not daunt him. He insisted on ruling the kingdom and the nobles. There came a time when he could no longer ride a horse. This was not a problem for he could always be carried in a litter.
‘But one day, distrustful of his brother-in-law, Guy of Lusignan, Baldwin decided that he would have to lead the army into battle. The ground was too rough for a litter. The king tried to mount his horse but it would not tolerate him and shied away.
One of the nobles dragged me from the ranks. “Carry the king upon your back,” he said.
I had no choice.
‘From that day on I was outcast. Except when I was needed to bear the king upon my back. This is why I am a leper. This is why I am called Mule.’
John and Bernard stared at him in silence. They could not find words to say for a long while.
‘We shall call you Matthew,’ John said at last. ‘Always.’
The next morning John woke just as the sun was touching the horizon. He went to the pool and scooped some water into his mouth. It tasted sweet and he drank his fill. He sat back on his haunches. Bernard stirred and sat up. He wandered a little way off in order to relieve himself.
John stared at Matthew who was still fast asleep, his head cradled in his arms. John took a deep breath and tip-toed over to him.
He squatted down beside him and gently pulled back the hood.
He expected to see a face horribly ravaged, disfigured to a grotesque mask, something barely recognisable as human.
What he saw astonished him.
He gestured Bernard over, putting his fingers to his lips to signify silence. Bernard joined him.
‘Christ,’ he said.
John nodded. ‘My thoughts, exactly.’
Although they kept their voices quiet, it was enough to disturb Matthew. His eyes fluttered open, shut and open once again.
‘No,’ he cried, pulling his hood down to cover his face. ‘Do not taint your eyes with me.’
John and Bernard exchanged glances. Matthew had curled himself into a ball, his head close to his knees. He was a picture of shame.
For long moment the two friends did not speak. Then John crouched down beside Matthew. ‘My friend,’ he said. ‘You are not a leper.’
Matthew stared at them numbly, not understanding their words, suspecting some trick.
‘I am a leper. People could see it in my face. They shunned me, fled me, cast me out into the hills. Damn it man, I could feel the disfigurement with my own hands.’
Bernard raised his hand. ‘Tell me Matthew, did you have smallpox in your youth?’
Matthew shook his head.
‘I’ve never had smallpox.’
‘Well judging by the pits and hollows on your face, you must have had it very bad at the time you were carrying King Baldwin.’
‘Smallpox?’
‘Yes. And people assumed it was leprosy and cast you out.’
Matthew touched his face, exploring his scarred face with his finger-tips. ‘Smallpox?’ he said.
Bernard nodded.
‘Smallpox.’
Matthew leapt into the air and began to run up and down, twenty yards this way, twenty yards that, making a zigzag around them. Every time he changed course he would give a leap in the air, crying out with joy.
Eventually he slowed and paced back to John and Bernard. ‘You are certain?’ he said. ‘You are certain it is not leprosy?’
‘Certain,’ Bernard said.
‘I wish I could find a lady’s mirror,’ Matthew said. ‘Then I could see with my own eyes.’
‘It’s not a pretty sight,’ Bernard said with a grin, ‘so be warned.’
‘That’s true,’ said John. ‘By the look of those scars you had the smallpox very bad. Your face is blemished right enough. But not by leprosy.’
Matthew came close and looked into their eyes. ‘You have freed me, my friends. I have carried this burden for almost three years. Now I am free.’
He gazed down at his hands, then up to John and Bernard in silent plea. They understood. They reached out and took held his hands tight.
Matthew wept.
‘I am not a leper,’ he said at last. ‘I am not a leper.’
Bernard released Matthew’s hand and pointed to the hills to the east.
‘No. you’re not,’ he said. ‘But it would be good if they were to believe that all three of us have the disease.’
John and Matthew turned towards where he was pointing.
A hundred Saracen horsemen were thundering towards them.
CHAPTER 14
ENDLESS MILES
The Road to Damascus
Agnes awoke. She shook her head. She was still in the column of captives, still walking, even in her sleep. She turned, horrified, wondering what had happened to Eleanor. A man smiled at her. He had the child cradled in his arms. Claude-Yusuf and Gerard were watching him closely, making sure that he did not run away with her.
Agnes held out her hands. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Her tone softened. ‘Did I drop her?’
He shook his head.
‘How long was I asleep?’
‘Moments. Enough for you to stumble and for me to take her. But not enough for you to fall.’
He passed Eleanor back to her. ‘My name is Peter. I am a winemaker from Tours.’
‘You were unwise to leave your home, Peter.’
He nodded. ‘My mother warned me that no good would come of it. I should have listened. She is always right.’
Agnes looked swiftly at Peter. He was short and rather stout. His hair was receding although he seemed little older than she was. He had a round face that was meant to be jolly but now seemed burdened with sorrow.
Peter stayed with Agnes for the rest of the day and when they stopped for the night, rolled himself in a cloak and slept at her feet. She tried to stay awake but her exhaustion flung her into a deep sleep.
She awoke next day stiff and anxious. She had been troubled by dark dreams although she could not remember them. She glanced at Peter. He was still rolled tight in his cloak and she sighed in relief. She wanted him close but not too close.
They continued on the long march north. Peter stayed close to her and although she remained wary she got used to his presence. He was kind to them all, taking turns to carry Eleanor and occasionally allowing Gerard to pretend he was a Templar riding on his back. Every so often Peter would neigh and trot up and down the line which made Gerard laugh and all those nearby smile.
Claude-Yusuf refused to be carried in this way.
During the march the Saracen guards were watchful but courteous. A few offered their mounts to people who were struggling but the officers saw this and forbade any more such kindnesses. A few of the captives died on the march but because the guards did not force the pace most survived.
The biggest anxiety for Agnes came from a man called Gaspard Allanche. He had been a customer at the inn for many years and she had always disliked him. His eyes had always followed her, whatever job she had been doing, and it was the same now that they were captives. Wherever she went he seemed to be there before her. He never spoke to her but contented himself with lewd staring and a knowing smile.
At first she put this down to her imagination but Peter noticed as well and took the opportunity to say it.
'Keep clear of him, Agnes,' he said. 'He has evil intent towards you.'
'I know that,' she said. 'But thank you for pointing it out.'
He looked as if he were about to say more but he merely shook his head and continued walking.
The sun was unseasonably hot for the time of year and as they walked further into the desert so the heat seemed to become fiercer and unrelenting. Yet she found that as she walked a new resolve began to settle upon her. I will survive, she decided. I will survive and keep my children safe and one day I will escape and find Bernard.
She did not allow herself to dwell on the thought of that glad reunion. She knew that to do so would weaken her strength of will.
In the middle of the night she awoke to find a heavy weight bearing down upon her.
'Make a noise and I'll slit your throat,' said a hoarse voice in her ear.
She knew at once that it was Gaspard Allenche. His words came out staccato, his voice thick with emotion.
She tried to push him away but he was too strong for her.
'Your throat and your children's,' he said. 'And I'll have you whether you fight or no.'
He was fumbling at her skirt, dragging it above her waist. His threat kept her quiet but still she struggled, pushing and kicking in silent fury, desperate to escape from beneath him. She glanced once at Peter and saw in the faint light from the nearby fire that he had been knocked unconscious, with blood seeping from a wound in his head.
'Come on you little whore,' Allenche said. 'You know you want it. You've always wanted it and always wanted me.'
He leaned his face closer which was his big mistake. She bit hard upon his chin and he cried out. In moments a furious figure leapt upon his back, pummelling him between the shoulder blades.
'Leave my mother alone,' Gerard cried, kicking and punching.
Allenche reached behind his back and dragged Gerard off, flinging him savagely to the ground. He was up again in an instant, all the breath knocked out of his body but determined nonetheless.
Allenche punched him in the face sending him reeling but he staggered up once more and groped like a blind man back towards the fight.
'Don't touch him,' hissed Agnes.
'You know what will stop me,' Allenche leered.
He had no time to say more.
Claude-Yusuf sprang into sight, wielding a brand from the fire. Allanche saw it but he saw it too late. Before he could move, Claude-Yusuf jabbed the brand into his face, gouging it into his eye.
Allenche shrieked in agony, waking even the most exhausted sleepers nearby.
Two Saracen guards raced over, snatching the brand from Claude-Yusuf just as he was about to push it against Allenche's throat.
An officer hurried after them and quickly sized up the situation.
'What's happening here?' he asked the guard.
'I can tell you,' gasped Agnes in fluent Arabic.
She took moments to tell the officer what had happened, pointing out where Peter and Gerard were groggily getting to their feet and showing where Allenche had uncovered himself for the act of rape.
It took even less time for the officer to make his decision. He summoned a doctor who quickly examined Gerard and Peter to make sure they were not badly harmed. Then, at a further command from the officer, he bent towards Allenche and deftly castrated him.
The man's screams echoed around the camp. One of the guards cauterised the wound and Allenche fell to the ground, writing in agony.
'No women are to be molested,' cried the officer. 'That is the command of Sultan Saladin. Any who disobey will suffer the same fate as this man. And more. I will make them eat their own manhoods.'
He gazed at Agnes, seeing her beauty in the light of the torches. He strode off but then stopped and turned to look at Claude-Yusuf with a thoughtful air. He smiled at the boy and nodded his head as if in recognition of his actions.
Agnes gathered the two sobbing boys to her, pressing them to her with all her strength.
'Brave boys,' she cried. 'Brave, brave boys.'
CHAPTER 15
A NEW LORD FOR SIMON
On the Road to Tyre
Night fell. Simon sat apart from others. The night brought welcome relief from the eyes. It brought the whispers even louder. He craned his head to try to catch the words that were spoken about him. He guessed they were hateful; some would no doubt be threats. He felt for his dagger. He had to be ready for any attack.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure approach. He slid his dagger from its sheath and placed it on his thigh.
‘There is no need for alarm, master Knight,’ the figure said.
‘What do you want with me?' Simon asked. 'Who are you?’
‘A friend. Or at least I hope we shall be friends.’
Simon nodded and the figure came close. A second figure darted behind and placed a stool on the ground before departing.
‘I saw you in the battle,’ the man said, making himself comfortable on the stool. ‘You were brave; courageous in the defence of Christ and His Church.’
‘And you?’
‘I fought in many ways.’ He twitched aside his cloak and revealed a heavy mace. ‘I am not allowed to shed blood, even the blood of an infidel. But I can crush skulls.’ He drew the cloak back. ‘Most of my weapons, however, involve prayer.’
Simon shook his head, not understanding.
Eraclius sniffed, angered that the man had not recognised him. ‘I am Patriarch Eraclius,’ he said softly.
‘I remember seeing you,’ Simon said. ‘When Balian came to the city and also at the negotiations with the Saracens.’ He snorted. ‘You left behind many of your flock.’
‘The negotiations were complex,’ Eraclius said. His blood was up at the impudence of Simon’s words but he mastered it. ‘I bought many souls with my own money and pleaded with the Sultan to release others. Which he did.’
‘But not all?’
‘Not all.’
Eraclius fell silent. He wondered if he should tell this stranger that he and Balian had offered themselves in ransom for the whole population. But something warned him not to allow such a confidence to this man. To do so would be a mistake; some time in the distant future he might have cause to regret it.
‘What do you want with me?’ Simon asked.
‘Ah,’ said Eraclius. ‘So you wonder, after all. Tell me your name, my son.’
‘Simon Ferrier.’
‘Do you leave loved ones behind in the city?’
Simon looked away. Faces flitted through his mind, voices and deeds. He saw two bright eyes begin to fade and deaden in front of him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No loved ones. Nobody I care for.’
The Patriarch nodded. ‘And do you have a lord?’
‘Does Balian count?’
Eraclius shrugged. ‘It could be argued that you are his man. But he knighted you in defence of the Holy City. It could, therefore, equally be argued that you are mine.’
Simon closed his eyes wearily. He felt like a well-gnawed bone being fought over by hounds.
‘So who decides?’
‘In such confused cases it is always God who decides. And He will speak through a humble heart as much as through a noble one.’
‘My heart is not noble, my lord. That I can tell you.’
‘How so?’
‘I did deeds, deeds which I will not speak of.’
Eraclius paused, considering. ‘Cruelty against the infidel are as gifts to Christ, my son. And deeds against fellow Christians can be confessed and absolved.’
A moan of pain rose in Simon’s throat.
Eraclius held out his hand. ‘Do as your heart tells you, Simon. Listen to God speaking to you.’
Eraclius watched him narrowly and pressed home his attack.
‘The Holy Church has lost many of its former protectors. It has need of new men now. Men of valour. Men who will do what they are commanded, knowing that only by obedience will they gain eternal bliss.’
The two men fell silent. The only noises were the murmur of the exhausted people, the call of cicadas and the whispering in Simon’s head.
‘You must not imagine that you will be welcomed by the other knights,’ continued Eraclius. ‘This kingdom is holiness itself in design but those entrusted with its sanctity are only human. You would not dream of aping your betters at home. Do not make the mistake of doing so here. You will suffer for it.
‘Your best hope is to embrace Christ and His Holy Church. I am the representative of both. I need knights to protect me and mine. You, I believe, are the only one available.’
It was a bitter bargain. Yet Simon took the Patriarch’s hand and kissed it.
The next day Simon rode beside Eraclius and his family. He rode a donkey, it was true, but it was a mount nonetheless. On his belt hung a sword. Round his neck a little silver cross.
CHAPTER 16
CAPTIVE ONCE MORE
Beit Lahia
The Saracen horsemen skidded to a halt, causing a choking cloud of dust to rise up above them. John, Bernard and Matthew shrank together, trying hard to master their terror.
One of the horsemen pushed his horse closer and stared down at them.
‘Are you a leper?’ he asked.
Matthew did not answer for a moment and then nodded. Fear of the disease might prove their best protection from the Saracens.
‘And you two?' said the man. 'Are you lepers also?’
‘We have spent time with the leper, Excellency,’ Bernard answered. ‘I assume we have got the disease.’
'Do not assume anything,' the Saracen said. 'We need a man of medicine to tell us truth.'
He turned in his saddle, searching the faces of his followers until he found the one he wanted.
‘Issam,’ he called.
A man pushed his way towards them.
‘Yes, Lord Khalid?’
‘Tell me if this man is a leper?’
Issam climbed down from his horse and peered into Matthew’s face. He gestured to him to show his hands and then the rest of his arms and his chest and feet.
The Saracen examined everything with great care, even sniffing at Matthew's face.