Doctor Who and the Crusaders

by David Whitaker

  He told her what had happened in the forest, how the Saracens had ambushed them, how he had seen Richard knocked into some bushes and had seized the opportunity to cause a diversion to allow the King to get away. ‘I am Sir William des Preaux, and some smiles will turn to long faces soon, I have no doubt.’

  ‘What happened to... the others. In the forest?’

  Sir William shrugged. ‘I do not know. But I have a hopeful heart and, what is better, a lucky King. And you, who will not say her name?...’

  ‘Barbara.’

  ‘I am keen to know why one so gentle puts herself amid the swords and arrows. And your garments are a fashion in themselves.’

  ‘Take me back to that forest, Sir William, and I’ll answer all your questions.’

  ‘You ask for the impossible very lightly.’

  ‘Is it so impossible?’

  ‘Today it is. I am the captive of one El Akir, an Emir in Saladin’s forces. He believes I am the King and thinks he has won the war for his master. He is puzzled about you, as I am, and means to question you. How can I explain you to them?’

  Barbara drank the last of the water and put the goblet down on the floor.

  ‘Let me help you with your pretence,’ she suggested. ‘Who rides with the King?’

  ‘Berengaria, the Queen, is in Acre. But the Princess!’

  He smacked a hand down on the bench delightedly.

  ‘You shall be Joanna, my sister, and support me in my lies. Then we shall truly make El Akir look stupid. To cause disruption among allies is just as good as cutting them in two in battle.’

  Barbara said, ‘I seem to have found a brother and a title.’

  ‘And a friend.’

  ‘That’s a very comforting thought.’

  ‘We will not confuse Saladin,’ murmured des Preaux, ‘but we will make El Akir lose face.’

  ‘From the look of him, that might be an improvement.’

  The knight put back his head and laughed delightedly.

  ‘You appear to be in good spirits,’ said a voice from the archway, and they both turned as El Akir strode into the room. His clothes were richer now, particularly a white knee-length coat of satin, edged with gold, and held together at the waist with a belt of finely-worked silver.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves while you may,’ he continued, standing in front of them arrogantly. Sir William yawned obviously and El Akir’s eyes gleamed for a moment. In a second, he controlled himself, but Barbara recognized in him a dangerous and vicious enemy.

  ‘The Sultan Yusef Salah ed-Din ibn Ayjub has commanded that all prisoners be treated with compassion. Would you not say his wishes have been complied with?’

  ‘I have no complaint for myself,’ replied Sir William, ‘but the Sultan of Egypt and Syria will not be pleased when he learns of the way my sister has been treated.’

  ‘Your sister?’ El Akir looked quickly at Barbara, who had drawn the cloak around her closely.

  ‘Aye, Joanna, widow of William the Second of Sicily; fifth child of Henry the Second of England; Princess of a domain stretching from the Cheviots to the Pyrenees...’

  ‘This explains why you were in the forest,’ interrupted El Akir, his eyes widening. Barbara could almost see his mind working. Sir William plunged in heavily to the attack, assuming an expression of extreme indignation.

  ‘My sister has been grossly ill-treated,’ he stormed. ‘Slung over a horse with her hands and feet tied together, to be carried like a sack of flour. Handled roughly by your men, foul rags stuffed in her mouth! Is this the compassion your mighty Sultan speaks of?’

  ‘Enough of this,’ snapped the Emir. ‘The woman is all of one piece.’

  Sir William shot out a hand, gripped hold of El Akir ‘s clothes and twisted the man so that he was nearly on his knees.

  ‘Woman?! Watch your tongue, Saracen.’

  In an instant guards came running into the room and the two men were pulled apart. As the guards bent the Englishman’s hands behind his back, El Akir stepped forward and slapped him viciously across the face.

  ‘You have no rights, no privileges, nothing except the benevolence of our ruler! But he will not side against me if you are too insolent. Remember, you are a prisoner here, not a free man.’ He turned to Barbara and eyed her appreciatively.

  ‘I came to learn your identity. That you are the King’s sister bodes well for me. I can serve both the Sultan and Malec el Adil, or Saphadin as you call him. The brother of the Sultan will rejoice to see the woman he has for so long admired. Bring them!’

  El Akir turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Fortune had played no part in his achievements of the past. He was an Emir simply because he had murdered his brother. He had riches because he had stolen them. Behind the man lay a dark trail of evil, without one saving grace, without one worthy deed. Even the scar he carried on his face was an advertisement of one of the worst of his acts, when he had attempted, after he had murdered his brother, to capture the weeping widow, a woman he had envied and desired until the deed of fratricide was no longer simply for the title but just as much for the wife as well. But when he stood before her, his hand still holding the sword of death, telling the grief-stricken girl what he had done and what her future was to be, a sudden horror of him, plus a determination he should suffer for his crime, had made her find a desperate courage. She had seized up a heavy ornament and struck at him with all her passionate anger. Although his servants had run in and thrust their swords into her, as El Akir lay groaning on the ground, she still had strength enough to say he would carry the sign of murderer until the day he died. And now all women were his enemies and El Akir delighted in enslaving them. So his pleasure, as he strode towards the Sultan’s chamber, was great: a woman would be humbled, her pride destroyed, and he would find favour and perhaps the close confidence of Saladin and Saphadin.

  He gained admittance to the chamber of the Sultan without delay and found Saphadin examining a map. The room was divided by a heavy silk curtain and behind it the room Emir knew Saladin sat, meditating on the disposition of his armies, pondering on strategy and ready to hear without being seen.

  ‘Malec el Adil, I bring good fortune not only for him who rules over as, but for your delight as well.’

  Saphadin looked up from the map, rolled it in his hands and walked over to a low couch heavily draped with fine materials. He sat down and gestured with his hand for El Akir to continue.

  ‘My brother hears you as I do.’

  ‘Know then,’ said El Akir, raising his voice slightly, ‘that I have the instrument to vanquish the invaders from across the seas and bring victory.’

  Saladin, sitting on the other side of the curtain, heard the words and moved his head slightly, his interest caught. A man of slight build, with a somewhat melancholy face in repose which entirely altered once he smiled, Saladin was many of the things a leader of men needed to be. His force of personality was tremendous, although he did not fight as Richard Coeur de Lion did, at the head of his men. This was not through cowardice but simply that his position as Sultan of the mighty Moslem army forbade such action. He had simple tastes, with a hatred for coarseness and ostentation. His courts abounded with philosophers and well-read. He was refined, courteous and generous. Above all, he had a fine sense of humour. None of these things was important as the undoubted ability he had to command and control the vast armies at his disposal. Syrians, Turks, Arabs, each nationality divided into different tribes and loyalties, status and rivalry; each commander jealous of his position; every army anxious to gain success in the field.

  Saladin’s personal position was only secure when his plans led to victory. He knew to the last degree how tenuous his hold was over the Moslem host (collectively called Saracens by the Crusaders) and that is why his fairness, courtesy and refinement, which no insecurity of position could shake, were all the more to be wondered at.

  He listened now, fascinated, as El Akin related the events leading up to the encounter in the forest ou
tside Jaffa, his hands pressed together, almost as if in prayer. The arrogant, triumphant voice of the Emir came to the end of his story.

  ‘And so, Prince, I bring you now the result of that skirmish in the wood.’ El Akir snapped his fingers and a guard led Sir William des Preaux into the chamber. ‘The King of the English, leader of the invaders, Malec Ric,’ he stated. Saphadin remained seated on his throne staring at the Knight curiously and El Akir was half disappointed at the effect. ‘The Lion is in our cage, Prince,’ he pointed out, but still the expected praise did not issue forth from Saphadin’s lips.

  ‘This is but one part of it,’ went on the Emir, puzzled by the attitude of his superiors. ‘Another prize was in that wood, a glittering jewel already sparkling in your eyes, El Adil. This priceless stone I bring to lay before you, as your heart desires.’

  Once again he snapped his fingers, and another guard escorted Barbara into the chamber. El Akir moved to her, took her elbow and brought her before Saphadin. ‘The sister of the Malec Ric; Joanna is the way they call her. Here for your command.’

  Saphadin looked at Barbara impassively and then at Sir William. His eyes moved to the face of the Emir.

  ‘King Richard and his sister, Joanna?’

  El Akir said: ‘No less.’

  ‘Less than less!’ Saphadin spat out viciously, and El Akir stepped back at the fury in the other’s voice. ‘Who is this creature, this rowdy jackal who yaps at my feet with tales of fortune and success! Not El Akir, trusted captain. It must be some odious devil who has taken his form and sent himself to torment me!’

  ‘My lord... all I have said is true...’

  ‘You vile worm, do you think I do not know the face and the form of the Princess Joanna?’

  ‘But they told me... he said... she...’ El Akir tailed away, as he realized the trick that had been played on him. He turned and looked at the smiling faces of Sir William and Barbara.

  The scar on his face suddenly showed up a livid red as the blood drained away from his face. Dark though the texture of his skin was, it visibly paled and his eyes took on an extraordinary glow of venomous hatred. Before he could utter the thoughts which showed so plainly on his face, Saladin stepped through the curtains.

  ‘It seems you are the victim of a pretty deception,’ he murmured. El Akir made his obeisance.

  ‘At least we have the English King,’ he replied, and then stared as Saphadin shook his head sorrowfully, and Saladin smiled.

  ‘This is not King Richard,’ said Saladin. ‘A blacker head of red-gold hair I never saw.’ Saladin moved across to Barbara and stared into her eyes, liking the fearless way the girl returned his attention. ‘You have the better bargain, brother. She may not be the Princess, but her beauty lights the room. ’

  El Akir started to speak and Saladin held up a hand sharply, getting the silence he commanded.

  ‘I do not wish to listen to you!’ he said scathingly, and then he turned to Sir William, ‘but I will hear what you have to say.’

  ‘Mighty Sultan, know that I am Sir William des Preaux and to aid my King’s escape I shouted out his name and took his identity. This lady, Your Highness, has no part in this affair, except to aid my pretence. I beg of you to look upon her kindly, whatever fate you have for me.’

  Saladin nodded slowly. ‘I salute your chivalry, and your words do not go unheeded.’

  El Akir stepped forward, plucking at Saladin’s sleeve.

  ‘Hear me! Let me make some good. This woman can be made to entertain you. I can have her dance on hot coals, run through a passage made of sharp-tipped swords or any of a hundred ways in my mind, all for your amusement.’

  Saladin thought for a second or two and then looked at Barbara gravely.

  ‘What do you say to this?’

  Barbara knew she was being tested as a person, and was determined not to hurry her reply. She also knew that Saladin would be disappointed if she begged for mercy, although she felt he probably expected it. Barbara was never one to take the course people anticipated.

  ‘It sounds to me,’ she said at last, ‘like the punishment for a fool.’ Saladin’s eyes betrayed his interest. ‘And which of us here is the most foolish?’ she added.

  The words hung in the room in the silence that followed, all heads turning towards El Akir. For one, frightening moment, he really believed that the punishment he had so vividly described would fall on himself. He started back, fear written plainly all over him. Saladin turned away contemptuously and sat on the low seat, exchanging an eloquent look with his brother.

  ‘El Akir,’ he said, ‘I can devise my own pleasures. Go with Sir William and let me hear you have treated him as an honoured guest. Let him take all liberties,’ and he smiled a friendly way at the Knight, ‘except of course, liberty itself.’ He waved a hand and the two men left the room silently. Saladin beckoned Barbara to come nearer. ‘Are you afraid of me?’

  Barbara shook her head and Saladin turned to his brother in mock surprise.

  ‘If I cannot make women tremble, what hope have we to win this war?’

  Barbara said, ‘I know of no person who doesn’t hold you in respect. There is a most healthy regard for your general-ship, My Lord. I am not a man, so perhaps I don’t fully understand what wars are all about, but I feel men of character do not care to fight against cowards.’

  ‘There’s philosophy here,’ murmured Saladin.

  ‘And wit, brother,’ added Saphadin.

  ‘Indeed. Now tell me the truth,’ said the Sultan. ‘You are not of these lands, yet you appear to be a stranger to Sir William.’

  ‘I am... a traveller. I was with three friends. We arrived in the wood.’

  ‘You rode into the wood?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You walked into it,’ hazarded Saphadin. Barbara shook her head, wondering how she could explain enough without asking too much of their credulity.

  ‘We arrived. In a box.’

  ‘Ah! You were carried into the wood.’

  Barbara felt it wise to agree with Saphadin on this point. Saladin sat back, rubbing a hand on his chin.

  ‘A reluctant story-teller!’

  ‘I could tell you... that I came from another world. Ruled by insects. Or that my friends and I recently visited Nero’s Rome. Before that, that we were in an England far into the future.’

  Saladin nodded slowly.

  ‘I understand. You and your friends are band of players? Entertainers? You are the story-teller?’

  Barbara merely inclined her head, thankful to have found a way to justify her existence, without entering into a long and involved pattern of lies.

  ‘Frankly, I tell you,’ said the Sultan, ‘you are an encumbrance. I do not dispense life and death lightly but you have no place in my military headquarters. A wise man would rid himself of you quickly and cleanly, and have done with it. So either you must serve a purpose here, or you have no purpose. We need diversion here and you shall provide it. If you succeed, you shall receive every kindness and comfort possible, and come to no harm. You shall grace my table tonight, with clothes more suitable to your new station.’

  Barbara looked a little troubled, not quite understanding what Saladin meant.

  ‘You are a self-confessed story-teller,’ he said. ‘If your stories beguile me, all will be well.’

  Barbara said, ‘Like Scheherazade?’

  Saladin leant forward, a grim smile on his lips.

  ‘Over whose head, you will recall, hung the sentence of death!’

  Chapter Four

  The Wheel Of Fortune

  As El Akir waited in the courtyard of Saladin’s headquarters at Ramlah, cursing for allowing himself to be made a fool of by his prisoners, a tall, richly-dressed merchant sat drinking at a table. El Akir had noticed him as he strode out of the palace, dismissing him as one of a dozen foreign merchants who sought to make profit from the war.

  It is always hard to understand a man without saving graces. All human beings have facets which ma
ke them admired, as much as those they may possess which dismay or repel. Those who knew El Akir found nothing to recommend him, for they recognized in him a man saturated with guilt, to much so that his life could only continue by laying extra evils, one above another, as if the man were tortured by the foul deeds he had committed and had to hide them by inventing fresh crimes; and far worse ones at that; curtaining off yesterday’s depredations with new villainies.

  All these things Luigi Ferrigo recognized; if not the actual details, certainly enough to know the type of man, for he was expert judge of a particular sort of human nature. Ferrigo’s fault by in his total inability to apply his judgement to all manner of men. Put him in the company of fools, cowards, villains or the greedy and he would find a way to make each one his cat’s-paw. Introduce him into a gathering of talent, honesty and good endeavour and he would with-draw within himself, become unapproachable and remote. So, as each man instinctively chooses the path in life he thinks will take him quickest to whatever his desires may be, Ferrigo’s way was shadowy and devious. Some said of him that he’d rather earn one gold piece by guile than a fortune by straightforward dealing, while others were convinced he was so filled with the lust for riches, he would rise to any height, or sink to any depths to make a profit.

  A woman came out of the palace, keeping to the shadows of the arched walk surrounding the courtyard. Luigi Ferrigo sat back in his chair, giving every evidence of sleep, while El Akir, seeing the woman he had been waiting for, drew himself into a small alcove. As she passed by him, he stepped out and gripped her arm. She gave a little shriek of fear and would have fallen to her knees, if he hadn’t held her upright, his fingers pressing into the flesh of her arm painfully, almost bringing tears to her eyes.

  ‘Sheyrah,’ he whispered fiercely, ‘where is the foreign woman? Tell me and you shall be rewarded.’

  The woman stared into his eyes, frightened at the depths of hatred she saw. He shook her arm impatiently and with his other hand produced a ring from the pouch at his belt, a heavy thing of silver, clasping a large and beautiful yellow stone.