by Martin Lake
‘I cannot think my kinsman King Henry would knight such as you.’
‘He didn’t,’ John said. ‘My friend Bernard and I were knighted by Balian of Ibelin at the siege of the Holy City.’
King Guy laughed.
‘So that explains it. Two apes knighted by another ape.’
He leaned closer, his face hardening.
‘Let me remind you, peasants. I am King of Jerusalem, not Balian of Ibelin.’
‘But he knighted us, nonetheless.’
Guy scowled.
‘He did. What bad fortune I cannot undo it.’
He gave a cold smile. ‘But do not think his knighting of you will count for anything. Do not think it makes you the equal of your betters.’
He strode away.
‘He’s the king?’ John said.
‘Yes,’ Bernard answered. ‘But only because Queen Sibilla lusted after him. He’s a man of little worth.’
‘Which is probably why he treats you in the same way,’ said Khalid as he walked towards them.
He clapped John on the shoulder. ‘Don’t look so despondent. You do not need to have any dealings with such men as Guy of Lusignan. You are in the retinue of al-Adil now.’
‘Yes,' John answered. 'And we’re about to ride down Christian refugees.’
‘Then let us hope that the fools flee while they still have a chance,’ said Khalid.
‘Why do you care about the refugees?’ Matthew asked.
‘I don’t particularly,’ Khalid answered. ‘I just don’t want them to get in the way of our troops.
A trumpet sounded and the army rose to its feet.
‘The signal to attack,’ said Khalid.
‘But I thought we were going to attack at nightfall,’ Bernard said.
‘We were. But the refugees are leaving.’
‘Leaving?’
‘Yes.’ Khalid shook his head. ‘Christians are strange. Your people are in the greatest of need but the commander of the city has refused them entry.’
‘I still don't understand why,' Bernard said.
Khalid shrugged.
‘I suspect he is ruled by his head and not his heart. He fears to take in those too frail to defend the city.’
‘This is no Holy Land,’ John said, bitterly.
'Not while it remains in Crusader hands,' said Khalid. ‘But it will be. With the help of Saladin.’
‘And the ordinary people are left to pay the bill,’ Matthew said.
Khalid laughed. ‘Is it not always so, in whatever empire?
He clapped his hands and some grooms led four horses towards them. ‘Mount up Sir Knights. May Allah keep you safe.’
CHAPTER 25
THE MORNING STAR
On the Road to Baghdad
Habib stifled a yawn. It had been a long night, with the boys chattering and the little girl grizzling. And then there had been the woman, Agnes, to distract him. He pulled back the curtain of the howdah and peered out
The moon was full and close to it shone the morning star, bright and glittering. They were the only signs of night still visible. He loved the morning star and thought its beauty the greatest in the heavens.
He relieved himself in his night-jar, pushed the stopper firm in its neck and readjusted himself.
He glanced across at the young woman sleeping opposite him. The moonlight shone upon her face and he examined it. She was in truth a real beauty. Every feature seemed to fit exactly right, neither too large nor too small. If an angel were to fall to earth she would look like this woman.
Best of all, she did not realise her own beauty. How could she for she would never have seen her own face as clearly as he could. And even if she did he guessed that there she possessed an innocence, a simple charm which would not countenance the thought that she was anything more than slightly pretty.
He licked his lips at the thought. Such innocence added a thousand times to her desirability. He was sure that his master would think the same.
He grew miserable for a moment, thinking of how the Caliph would be able to bed her whenever he wanted. A little fantasy developed in his mind of how one day the beautiful Christian would grow frightened of the Caliph and come to him, Habib the fat, and throw herself upon him for comfort. He would be like a father to her, like a brother. He would sooth and comfort her, whispering soft words in her ear, stroking her hair and her face. And then, when she was calm and beguiled, he would entice her to his bed and act like a beast upon her.
Lost in these dreams he did not realise that she was watching him watch her. He blinked quickly, wondering how long she had been watching and if she could divine any inkling of his thoughts.
'You've been watching me,' she said.
He smiled. 'You are a beautiful woman,' he said. 'In the sky shines the morning star and she too is beautiful. I delight to look upon her crystal gleam as I delight to look upon you. An old man should be allowed his pleasures.'
She looked at him dubiously.
'Where are you taking us? Really?'
'I told you, to Baghdad.'
She frowned. 'What for?'
'I told you in Damascus. I have bought you for the Caliph?'
'I don't believe you.'
He shrugged. 'That is your privilege.'
She pulled back the curtain of the howdah. 'It is morning,' she said. 'Did we journey through the night?'
'We did. These lands are on the border of my master's and those of Saladin. They are infested with robbers who have no respect for Caliph, Sultan or for private property. It is best to hurry through such lands.'
She gave him a thoughtful look. 'Are you telling me that they would attack a servant of the Caliph?'
Habib rubbed his nose. 'Enough of your impertinence. Thieves are thieves everywhere and some show as little deference to their betters as you do.'
She smiled to herself and closed her eyes.
She is a clever one, Habib thought as he stared at her.
He licked his lips, congratulating himself once again upon his choice.
He made his living by his sound judgement in choosing women to allure and satisfy his master. But more than this, he used the women he bought as pieces in the deadly games played by the Caliph's servants within the Palace.
When he brought a new woman of consummate beauty, one who gave his master an abundance of pleasure, his own power and influence within the Palace would grow. A woman who bored the Caliph or fell out of favour would cause his power to diminish.
More than that, the women knew that he was a power himself within the Palace and would tell him gossip and secrets if he would only bend his lips to the Caliph to remind him of their particular charms. The Caliph could not be expected to remember the two hundred women in his harem. He relied upon Habib to give him this information. And so Habib would advance his own favourites and put aside those who would not ally themselves with him.
For thirty years he had played this role with the present Caliph and with his father before him. He had walked the traps and snares of the harem and the Palace like no one else before him and had always chosen women who would serve his purpose as well as pleasing the Caliph.
His mood of self-congratulation soured at that point. He had failed with one, of course, and now she was proving irksome, even dangerous to him.
'What is Baghdad?' asked a voice close to his ear.
It was the older of the two boys, the half-breed.
'Have you been listening to my talk with your aunt?'
'I did not know it was a secret.'
Habib rubbed his hand upon the boy's head. 'It wasn't. No need to worry.'
He returned his thoughts to the harem and the Palace.
'What is Baghdad?' the boy asked again.
Habib clipped him around the ear.
'Are you so ignorant that you do not know about Baghdad?' he said.
'Is it a man or a country or a castle or a town?'
Habib raised his eyes to heaven. 'Infidels,' he murmured. 'No bette
r than the beasts in the field.'
He turned towards Claude-Yusuf. 'What is the centre of your body?' he asked.
'My belly.'
'Idiot.' He thumped the boy in the chest. 'It is here, your heart.'
Claude-Yusuf rubbed his chest.
'Well,' continued Habib, 'Baghdad is the heart of the entire world. It is the capital of the Muslim Empire, the source of all learning and civilisation, the fountain of wealth and glory and pleasure.'
'Then how come I've never heard of it?'
'Because you're a pig. An ignorant, Christian pig. A Frank who should not be allowed to set foot in the Holy Places of my people.'
'If that's the case then why are you taking me to Baghdad?'
Habib turned towards Claude-Yusuf. He was about to answer but found himself smiling instead. He tapped the boy on the head. 'You have a brain in there, half-breed. That must come from your mother.'
He stroked his beard. 'I am taking you to Baghdad because you are a slave. You are as much the possession of my master as is his ox or his pet monkey. More, in fact, for his monkey gives him pleasure. You, however, will sicken him.'
Claude-Yusuf did not answer for a moment.
'How long will it take us to get to Baghdad?' he asked.
'Three weeks.'
'Plenty of time for me to escape then,' he said. 'Or for my father to come to rescue us. Or Uncle Bernard and Sir John and Sir Simon.'
'But look,' Habib said, drawing back the curtain. 'We are in the middle of the desert. How on earth will your family be able to find us?'
They halted at midday and the guards lit a fire and prepared a meal.
Dawud stared moodily at the little family. 'I hope you're right about the woman,' he said. 'She looks too old to me.'
'Nonsense,' Habib answered. 'Am not I the consummate judge of my master's lusts? He is getting tired of fresh meat. He will relish this little bundle. All big eyes and hammering heart but with a tongue which will dance round his mouth like a cobra. Look at her thighs man; imagine them crushing him as she screams with pleasure. Imagine his pleasure. And how grateful he will be to the two servants who brought him this choicest of dishes.'
'And the favourite? How will she view it?'
Habib's face clouded over.
At that moment, Eleanor, playing with her brother, fell and twisted her ankle.
She screamed with pain and distress. Agnes was sitting by the fire, chewing on some bread but she rose immediately and hurried over.
She was not as quick as Dawud, however. He took two steps towards the little girl and picked her up. This only made her scream still louder and hit him on the shoulder.
In a moment Gerard had sprung at Dawud and began to kick at his shins.
Startled by this attack, he flung out his hand and slapped the boy around the head, knocking him to the ground. Eleanor screamed still more loudly at this and Dawud clapped his hand upon her mouth to quieten her.
Agnes reached him within seconds, beating on his chest and grabbing her daughter from him.
Habib looked on with astonishment and then roared with laughter.
Dawud was furious. He shook his fist in Agnes' face, cursing her. She leaned back in fright then stepped forward in fury, shoving him away with her free hand.
'I meant no harm,' Dawud cried. 'You're lucky I don't slit the child's throat.'
Agnes froze. She darted a glance at Habib who merely shrugged.
'If you do that I shall tell the Caliph,' Claude-Yusuf said.
Dawud turned to him in amazement. 'What did you say?'
'I shall tell the Caliph. I shall tell him that you slit the throat of one of his slaves. Eleanor is not your property, she belongs to him. He will be most angry at you.'
Dawud shook his head in disbelief. Habib laughed once more and clapped his hands with pleasure at the boy's response.
Dawud frowned and walked towards Habib, his face confused. 'I only meant to comfort the child,' he whispered.
'I'm sure you did, old friend, but these Franks are foolish and quick to take offence.'
'The boy is clever, though,' Dawud said. 'Did you see how he threatened me?'
He stroked his beard. 'I did. I was impressed, most impressed.
'And I also saw how the young vixen was very quick to fight for her child. I believe I may have chosen a woman who will not only please the Caliph but may well put a certain someone's nose out of joint.'
Dawud shook his head. 'Be careful, Habib. Be very careful.'
CHAPTER 26
CONRAD OF MONTFERRAT
Tyre
John, Bernard and Matthew climbed into their saddles.
‘I will not kill a Christian,’ John said.
‘I don’t think they expect you to,’ Bernard said.
'Whether they expect it or not I will not kill a Christian.'
Khalid frowned at John.
‘Bernard is correct,’ he said in a weary tone. ‘Al-Adil expects a show from you, to prove to the troops that he can win the hearts of all, even Franks. All he asks is that you gallop with me and look blood-thirsty. He does not expect you to kill any of your people.’
‘I might, though,’ Matthew said half to himself. 'If I see any of the bastards who stoned me from the city.’
Khalid laughed.
‘The leper has good reason for such venom,’ I think.
‘He is not a leper,’ John said. ‘He is my friend.’
‘And I am yours,’ Khalid replied. He leaned forward and tapped John upon the knee. ‘But do not presume upon it.’
He raised his hand to lead them towards the plain. They trotted past the marching infantrymen and took their place towards the front of the cavalry.
Khalid turned and smiled at them.
‘Come my friends, stay close to me. I will keep you safe, God willing.’
The horsemen began an ordered advance across the plain. When they were a couple of furlongs from the walls, Saladin raised his hand and they halted.
John looked and saw that most of the refugees were hurrying north, away from the city. Two score or more remained, all young men. A postern opened in the walls and a party of soldiers marched out to guard the door while the young men made haste into the city.
They barely made it.
The Saracen horsemen who had been hiding on either side of the city now raced down upon the postern. The soldiers from the city saw them and broke, every man for himself, pushing and panicking, clogging up the door.
A huge cheer rose from the Saracen army. They whistled and called, urging their comrades to greater speed, as if they were watching a race.
At the gate a large man forced himself to the front of the mob. He beat the panicking soldiers with his sword until he had established better order. They appeared more scared of him than of the Saracens so they quietened and filed through the postern.
The last man to enter the city was the large man who had restored order. Just as the gate was closing he turned and spat towards the Saracen horsemen in a gesture of defiance.
‘If that is the commander,’ Khalid said, ‘we will have a battle on our hands.’
Saladin clearly thought the same. He scowled.
The race for the postern had been lost.
Saladin clicked his fingers and sent a herald a hundred yards forward. The herald waited until a group of figures appeared upon the battlement.
‘I desire to speak with the commander of the city,’ the herald cried. His voice was clear and melodious and carried across the city and the whole of the Saracen army.
‘I am the commander of the city,’ called one of the figures. It was the large man who had marshalled the panicking troops at the postern.
‘My name is Conrad, son of William of Montferrat,’ he continued. ‘I lead the defence on behalf of the people and commune of Tyre.’
John saw Saladin and al-Adil exchange looks.
‘Do you know him?’ John asked Khalid.
Khalid shook his head. ‘He is new come to the
se lands. His brother, William Longsword, was married to Queen Sibilla but died ten years since.’
‘Their father, the Marquis, lives still,’ said Bernard. ‘He has eaten in my inn. He has a big laugh and an even bigger appetite.’
‘He is not laughing now,’ said Khalid. ‘He was captured at Hattin and is forced to spend his time in the company of King Guy who he loathes. I have seen him. His face is growing bleaker by the day.’
The herald had turned towards Saladin. He gestured him to continue.
‘My master,’ he called, ‘Righteous of the Faith, Sword of God, Lord of the Hosts of Islam, the Sultan Saladin, acknowledges you.’
Conrad did not deign to reply.
‘The Sultan has marched his army to this city,’ continued the herald. ‘This is the army which has destroyed the forces of the Franks, which has vanquished the Orders of the Temple and the Hospital of St John and thrown down their fortifications. This is the army which has conquered the Holy City of Jerusalem.’
At these words the Saracen army growled with pleasure as if it was a hound being stroked.
‘Captive at our camp,’ the herald continued, ‘are the great lords and captains of the Franks. Languishing there are King Guy, his brother Almaric, Gerard de Ridefort, Grand-Master of the Temple, Humphrey of Toron and Marquis William of Montferrat.’
He paused at this name and Saladin and al-Adil shot quick glances up to the battlements to check Conrad’s reaction.
He gave away nothing.
‘There are other great lords, too numerous to mention,’ said the herald. ‘One who is not with them is Reynald of Châtillon. He died under the sword of Sultan Saladin in payment for his wickedness.’
‘Enough of this,’ Conrad cried. ‘Enough of your words. What do you want?’
‘The Sultan wants Tyre,’ the herald replied simply.
‘He cannot have it.’
The herald shook his head, as if in sorrow. ‘If you surrender the city, the merciful Lord Saladin will allow all of your people to go free for a ransom of five dinars a person. All weapons are to be given up and all of your soldiers are to leave the city.’
‘And if we don’t surrender?’
The herald paused. ‘Then the city will be destroyed brick by brick, your soldiers slain and your women and children sold in the slave markets of Africa. You, however, Conrad of Montferrat, will be crucified, like your prophet.’