Doctor Who and the Crusaders

by David Whitaker

  ‘I have heard sounds in these woods, Sire,’ he said seriously, walking over to the King. ‘You are too far from Jaffa and the Saracens too near.’

  The King shrugged, stooped down and picked up a skin of water and a silver goblet from a little pile of refreshments laid out by the servant. He poured himself a long drink of clear water and drank deeply.

  ‘Have you seen any Saracens?’ asked de Tornebu, and des Preaux shook his head.

  ‘No, but I sense them about at, This wood might have been designed for ambush. We have none of Nature’s warning voices on our side.’ He looked at the three men, one after another, significantly. ‘There is not one bird in a tree.’

  ‘Put up your sword,’ murmured the King. ‘My hawk has frightened away the birds. Come, come, des Preaux, you sound like an old woman surrounded by shadows.’ He spread himself on the ground, rummaged among the provisions and found a bunch of grapes and began to eat them.

  Des Preaux looked at him anxiously.

  ‘I have put Alun and Luke de L’Etable with the horses, Sire. All is ready for the return to Jaffa.’

  King Richard’s eyes moved from his contemplation of the bunch of grapes and stared into those of the man with the sword coldly, the lazy air of relaxation dropping away from his reclining body and changing too stiff tension. Des Preaux shifted uncomfortably, conscious that he had presumed to make a decision before referring it. But he held the King’s gaze because of his genuine concern, and his belief that danger was everywhere around the man he had sworn to serve.

  Richard said ‘We will stay here.’

  There was a moment’s pause as the two men stared at each other, the one completely certain of his right to decide, the other afraid to give way. Finally, des Preaux reddened and dropped his eyes. Immediately a change came over the King and he smiled. Not because he had won a battle of wills or because he had achieved his own purpose. Richard, although impulsive, was not the man to feel any triumph in succeeding when he had no chance to lose. The reason men followed him, fought and died for him, was that his fairness and judgement of character were acute.

  ‘Yes, we will all stay here,’ he continued, ‘until, William the Wary, you recover your composure. And, I hope, your sense of humour.’

  As the King and his three friends gathered around the refreshments and ate and drank, a man with a vivid scar running down the right side of his face, parted some bushes about a hundred yards away and peered at them. He watched the four men intently for a moment, let the bushes close together again and sank down under cover, beckoning slightly with one hand, each finger of which was holding a jewelled ring. His dark eyes glittered and there was an air of suppressed excitement written all over his swarthy face. The Saracen soldier he had commanded crept up to him, and lay beside him patiently.

  ‘One of these four men is the English King, Malec Ric,’ the man with the scar whispered. ‘We will come at them at close quarters. They are dressed too much alike for me to tell which is the King and which are servants or friends. But one will declare himself as they fight for their lives. He who takes command is the King and he must be taken alive.’ He looked at the soldier beside him, their faces close together.

  ‘Alive, do you understand?’ he muttered viciously. The soldier licked his lips and nodded.

  ‘Then get my men placed well, and when I move tell them they are all to show themselves. Now go!’

  The man with the scar pushed at the soldier rough,y, watched him squirm back the way he had come then turned his attentions to the unsuspecting men in the little forest clearing.

  In another part of the wood, the Tardis found itself a clear patch and materialized, its safety precaution selector deliberately choosing a place well screened by tall thick bushes. It was one of the features of the Doctor’s ship that it always assessed the place it landed in in one millionth of a second before it materialized, and was thus able to avoid appearing in busy streets or under water, or any of the hundred and one hazards which might endanger the safety of the ship and its occupants. Had its safety device been of much wider sort, of course, it is more than likely it would have detected the presence of the coming struggle in the little forest outside Jaffa. But, of course, if its sensitivity had been so fine there would be no chronicles about Doctor Who.

  Ian was first out of the ship. He crept over to the screen of tall bushes and peered through them. Barbara came across from the Tardis and stood beside him quietly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I don’t know where we are, but it looks like an ordinary wood.’

  ‘The Doctor says we’ve landed on Earth again.’

  Ian pushed his way through the bushes, holding them back for the girl to follow him, and together they wandered a few paces through the trees.

  Barbara said, ‘Have you ever thought what you’d do, Ian, if the Doctor landed us back in our own time in England?’

  He looked at the sunlight filtering through the trees above their heads, occasionally catching in her eyes as they walked. It was a question which had often occurred to him, one he had frequently thought of asking her. Before he could answer, a sudden shout broke the silence of the forest, stopping them in their tracks. The word itself meant nothing to them at that particular moment, and it’s doubtful if they even realized it gave them the key to where they were on Earth and the period of its history. All they did know was that the sound was the beginning of danger, of trouble.

  ‘Saladin!’

  The one word pierced out of the silence and hung around them in the short silence that followed. Barbara glanced quickly at the man beside her.

  ‘That wasn’t either of you calling, was it?’ they heard the Doctor say from the other side of the ring of bushes. Ian took hold of Barbara’s hand as other cries and shouts began to ring out from the forest and the sharp ring of metal striking metal.

  ‘We’ll get back to the ship,’ said Ian.

  They were just moving back to the safety of the bushes when a man came running through the trees, a curved sword in his hand. He wore metal helmet with a long point and a short cape was pinned at the neck and hung behind him. Under the sleeveless breast-plate of small chain metal, a rich dark-blue jacket finished just below his elbows and the rest of the arms were covered with leather wrist protectors studded with metal buttons. A dark-red sash was tied round his waist and the loose, baggy trousers were thrust into soft leather boots with pointed toes. As soon as he saw Ian and Barbara he raised his sword, changed direction slightly and rushed at them, his dark face tightening into fury and hatred.

  Ian dropped on one knee and gripped the sword hand of his new enemy, but fell with him in the power of the man’s approaching rush.

  ‘Run, Barbara!’ he shouted.

  Barbara looked around quickly for a stone or a thick piece of wood to help Ian as the two men rolled and wrestled on the ground. Finally she saw a thick branch some yards away to her left, partially hidden by some bushes. She ran to it and started pulling it out from the grass which had over-grown it. A hand appeared from nowhere, clamped itself around her mouth and pulled her through the bushes, the other arm pinioning itself around her threshing body. Barbara looked up wildly at her captor, who was dressed in similar fashion to the man with whom Ian was fighting only a few yards away. She kicked out with her legs to try and break the man’s hold on her, nearly got free and then slumped to the earth unconscious, as a sharp blow from the man’s fist caught her at the base of the neck.

  The Doctor and Vicki peered out from the bushes at Ian’s struggles. The soldier had lost his sword by this time, but he had a very good stranglehold on Ian’s neck and was doing his best to squeeze life out of him.

  ‘Get me a rock or something, my child,’ murmured the Doctor mildly as he watched the fight. Ian managed to break the stranglehold, half rose from beneath the soldier’s body, intending to throw him to the ground but fell back as one of the man’s leather and metal wristlets smashed into the side of his head, the effort causing the Saracen’s
helmet to fall off.

  Be careful, Chesterton; said the Doctor, ‘he’s going to butt you with his head. Ah! I told you he would.’

  The soldier, conscious now that he had a new enemy behind him, was trying to get away from Ian and reach for his sword. The Doctor walked over a few paces and stepped on the sword firmly. Vicki ran up with a small stone and handed it to the Doctor, who weighed it in his hand reflectively.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ panted Ian.

  ‘Oh, very well. Hold him still, then.’

  Ian rolled so that the soldier lay on top of him and the Doctor stepped nearer and brought the stone down on top of his head sharply. The soldier groaned and rolled away. Ian picked himself up, and Vicki helped him to brush the dirt and leaves from his clothes.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ he said, sarcastically. The Doctor suddenly pitched the stone away from him and hurried his two friends into the cover of the ring of bushes as he heard the sound of approaching men.

  In a second, they watched as four or five men in simple hunting clothes, obviously retreating through the wood, fought a rearguard action against twice as many soldiers with the pointed helmets. One of the men in hunting clothes was badly wounded, a short arrow sticking out of his body at the top of his right shoulder, the blood coursing down his tunic, the red stain showing up clearly in the dappled sunlight. Another of the hunters fell, an arrow through his heart, while the tallest of the huntsmen, different only from his companions by his head of red-gold hair,. fought a violent, hand-to-hand battle with three of the pursuing soldiers, running his sword through one and crashing the hilt on top of another’s face. The third, who carried a lance, reversed it suddenly and swung it in an arc. The end of it just struck the top of the red-headed giant’s forehead. With a roar of rage and pain, he fell into some bushes and disappeared from sight.

  ‘We ought to help them,’ said Ian urgently, but the Doctor held on to Ian’s arm.

  ‘Think of the women, Chesterton! We most hold ourselves ready to defend them.’

  ‘Yes, Barbara’s hiding somewhere on the other side of those trees,’ murmured Ian, with an anxious frown.

  Suddenly the fighting stopped and one of the huntsmen, the only one left standing, held up his arms as four of the soldiers made to run at him.

  ‘I am Malec Ric,’ he shouted.

  A man pushed his way through the small ring of soldiers and approached the huntsman.

  ‘You have no friends to protect you now, Malec Ric.’ The huntsman looked slowly around the wood, his eyes moving from first one and then another of his friends lying on the ground.

  ‘I am the Emir, El Akir,’ continued the man with the scar.

  ‘Am I to die as well?’ said the man at bay. ‘If so dispatch me and have done with it.’

  El Akir shook his head slowly, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

  ‘Your fate will be decided elsewhere. To tell of killing the English King, Malec Ric, is a vain story that only a fool might invent. To show a captured Malec Ric is what El Akir shall do.’

  The tall huntsman stared at the Emir coldly. ‘Take me then and leave my friends in peace.’

  ‘A king at liberty may give commands. A captured one obeys them.’

  He gestured sharply to the soldiers and the prisoner was hustled away by two of them. A look of utter satisfaction filled El Akir’s face, as he beckoned up another of the soldiers to his side.

  ‘Take such men as you need, search out the others and kill them,’ he commanded. The soldier bowed his head and the Emir walked away, following the soldiers who were now disappearing through the trees with their prisoner.

  As soon as he was left alone, the soldier began to beat in the bushes with the flat side of his sword, searching for any hidden enemies. Another soldier appeared and did the same thing.

  Vicki suddenly realized that her foot was showing through the bushes. Before she could draw it out of sight, one of the soldiers spotted her, thrust a hand through the foliage and dragged her out into view. Ian immediately launched himself out of his cover, while the Doctor picked up a discarded lance and beat off the approach of the second soldier. Once again the wood resounded with the sound of conflict, but this time the contest was considerably more uneven than befoec. The Doctor’s lance was no match for the curved sword and all he could do was thrust and parry desperately, while Ian found himself up against a strong opponent, and without any weapon at all.

  One of the wounded men in hunting clothes, Sir William de Tornebu, still weak from the arrow wound in his shoulder, pulled himself to his knees and signalled to Vicki, who ran over to him. He was struggling to draw the sword that hung at his side and she pulled it out for him. He gestured her gently, but firmly, to one side, held the sword lightly as if it were a javelin and threw it with all the strength he could muster, falling to the ground with the effort.

  The sword flashed through the air and struck at the soldier who had pinned Ian against a tree. It buried itself deeply into his back, just as he was raising his sword to cut Ian in half. Fora second or two the soldier stood, his weapon raised in his hand, a look of absolute surprise on his face. Then he staggered and fell to one side, the sword slipping out of his nerveless hand. Ian picked it up and ran over to where the Doctor was engaged with the other Saracen and, after a few short strokes, ended the matter finally with a fierce cut as the soldier’s guard dropped. Ian threw the sword away from him and walked with the Doctor to where Vicki was trying to nurse de Tornebu, whose effort had expended his last reserve of energy. He lay in Vicki’s arms, his eyes closed.

  ‘We have our friend here to thank for our lives,’ said the Doctor seriously, bending beside the injured man. ‘These Saracens would have killed all of us without a second’s thought’

  ‘Saracens!’ echoed Ian.

  ‘Of course. You heard that man announcing himself as “Malec Ric”, didn’t you? That was what the Saracens called King Richard of England.’

  ‘Richard the Lionheart,’ added Vicki. The man in her arms opened his eyes and looked up at the three people around him weakly. It was obvious that even the effort of keeping his eyelids open was a strain.

  ‘Not... not the King,’ he muttered. The Doctor bent down on one knee.

  ‘What was that, my friend?’

  ‘The man... who called himself Malec Ric...’ the other gasped, ‘was Sir... Sir William des Preaux. The King... if he lives... give him the... belt.’

  De Tornebu’s head fell back again.

  Vicki said: ‘Is he dead?’

  The Doctor shook his head. ‘No, but he’s badly wounded. We must take that arrow out.’

  ‘What did he mean about the belt?’ asked Vicki. She searched inside a pouch belonging to the unconscious man, pulled out a jewel-encrusted gold belt and gasped in astonishment.

  ‘Gold... and rubies. Diamonds too, Doctor.’

  ‘Very useful,’ murmured the Doctor thoughtfully. He suddenly looked up. ‘Where’s Chesterton gone?’

  Ian suddenly came running towards them.

  ‘I can’t find Barbara anywhere,’ he cried. ‘I thought she must have hidden when the fight started, but she isn’t anywhere

  The Doctor looked at the young man seriously, then down at the ornate belt in his hand.

  ‘I’m afraid it looks as if the Saracens have taken her,’ he said quietly. There was a pause for a moment or two, then Ian reached down and picked up a sword from the ground. ‘What do you think you’re going to do?’

  ‘Go after her, of course,’ Ian said.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said the Doctor sharply. ‘We’re in enemy country and surrounded by huge armies. You’d be outnumbered thousands to one. Try to be sensible, I beg of you.’

  Ian pressed his lips together stubbornly and started to argue with the Doctor. For a moment, Vicki thought they’d come to blows, as the older of the two men stood up, his fists clenched and his whole body shaking with rage.

  Ian, almost beside himself with anxiety, tried to ign
ore what he knew was sound advice, but eventually realized he couldn’t possibly succeed by throwing himself after Barbara. He looked at the sword in his hand disgustedly, broke it over his knee and threw the two pieces as far away from him as he could. The Doctor put a hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

  ‘We all have the same wish, Chesterton. I have a plan to achieve Barbara’s return, too. We have this wounded knight here, and we have this valuable piece of jewellery.’ He held up the golden belt, and the sunlight brought out all the facets of the jewels embedded in it, until it dazzled the eye with its richness and beauty.

  ‘How can they help us?’

  ‘We shall take both the knight and the golden belt to King Richard,’ stated the Doctor. ‘He will be in our debt. He will then accede to your request to go after Barbara, to the court of Saladin, and arrange for her release. It’s the only way, my boy, believe me.’

  Ian turned the plan over in his mind and then, after a few seconds, he agreed with it. The Doctor patted him on the back in satisfaction.

  ‘Good. Now you’re being intelligent. But can you also be patient?’

  ‘Why?’

  The Doctor spread out his hands.

  ‘We can’t possibly go to King Richard wearing clothes like these. We are on Earth at the time of the Third Crusade, my boy, in Palestine; some time between A.D. 1190 and 1192. We must find wearing apparel suitable to the time and place.’

  ‘Haven’t you anything in the ship?’ demanded Ian.

  The Doctor shook his head. ‘Worse than that, my boy, I have no money either. However, it can’t be very far to the town where Richard has his headquarters. I will go there and find a way to get us something to wear. You and Vicki must wait here and look after this wounded man.’

  Ian stared at him stubbornly for a few moments. The Doctor read all the doubt and anxiety in his eyes and knew that the younger man was matching this against all those other times when the Doctor’s advice had been the wiser course of action. Eventually, Ian nodded and turned away. ‘Fetch my long, black cloak from the ship, will you, my child?’ murmured the Doctor.