‘Divine reckoning more so.’ The Perfect gestured westward across the water. ‘One day we Cathars shall land as mighty formation upon the shores of Europe, will sweep aside those who oppose us, will rip asunder the royal houses and bishop palaces of our foes.’
‘Noble and worthy aim.’
‘A dream and prospect that will be fulfilled. I shall lead my brethren to victory.’
You shall be long since dead, the Lord of Arsur mused. But he would encourage the man in his fervour and ambition, support him in the following weeks. There was reason for employing disparate groups with varying objectives, a time for cohesion and for later moment of revelation. Needs would be tended and self-interest flattered.
He gave a tight smile. ‘You will be tired from your journey.’
‘No, my lord. We are inspired at prospect of carnage, revived by the thought that each step we take brings us nearer to Consolamentium, to the point of our epiphany and salvation.’
‘There is ample reward. I have gathered children in number for your sharpened blades, and will commit them to your keeping once the kingdom is mine.’
‘You honour us, my lord.’
‘Obedience and devotion are demanded in return.’
Their enthusiasm was touching. Conquest was ever founded on the blood of innocents, and this one would be marked with heavy and ritual spillage in the ancient valley of Gehenna itself. What better way to celebrate the passing of an era, to bless the introduction of the new. The Lord of Arsur beckoned the Perfect to follow. Much remained to be done. He would reserve the fate of the infant and purloined queen Yolanda for himself.
Other newcomers had found passage to Arsur. Captured and enslaved by the governor of Alexandria, they had been sent as tribute to the Sultan of Damascus. But intervention had occurred. Their caravan was attacked by the leper Knights of St Lazarus, the horde descending to liberate Moslem heads from bodies and plunder from the camel train. Prisoners did not find freedom. They merely passed to different ownership.
Carrying a flaming torch, the Lord of Arsur made his way down to inspect the human takings. It was happy accident they had fallen into his possession. He would use them wisely, cruelly, would add them to the sum total of the greater scheme. Bolts drew back, heavy oak doors swung wide. He was in.
They were subdued in their misery and chains, some sobbing futilely, others watching wordless as he walked among them with the flaring brand. He searched their faces, wishing to see the dumb desolation, wanting to feed on the piteousness and despair. Perchance they thought he was life and death. He would not be offering life.
‘Your name?’ He brought the flame closer and switched to German. ‘What is your name?’
‘It is Egon.’
The boy was a solid Rhinelander, had the large frame and inbred insolence of a village peasant. Scared naturally, but with a hint of resistance and anger. An intriguing prospect.
‘And what is your trade, Egon?’
‘A blacksmith, like my father.’
‘Yet you are far from any forge.’ The Lord of Arsur moved the torch before his face, and the eyes of the boy flickered. ‘You are well received to our kingdom of Outremer, son of blacksmith.’
‘Is this welcome?’ Egon tugged at his leg-iron.
‘Consider it necessity.’
‘We are not beasts or thieves to be shackled. Like you we are Christians, pilgrims on holy mission to reach Jerusalem.’
‘You have my oath you shall find it.’
‘Word counts for naught when we are held in your dungeon.’
‘Such spirit in the young ox.’ The Lord of Arsur transferred his gaze to a younger boy. ‘Who is this?’
‘His name is Zepp, and he will not answer. Since his brother died and we took ship from Genoa, his tongue has fled him.’
‘I am certain it may be restored.’
As the light swept near, the ten-year old shrank back further in the straw. He was no longer the ever-cheerful child of the road, the ebullient optimist who had guided his blind twin each step of the way. What remained was shadow and the dead eyes of loss.
‘Stay back from him!’ The cry from Egon was fierce with distrust.
Around, there was the rustle of the young withdrawing to the imagined safety of deeper gloom, attempting to evade notice. They wanted no part in this, yearned for their mothers and fathers and a ship for home. Egon glared at his captor.
The Lord of Arsur affected surprise. ‘A challenge?’
‘Believe it so. You are master and lord, but I shall not let you harm him.’
‘Your power to bargain is weak, son of blacksmith.’
‘A prisoner may fight.’
‘To little effect. What if I should slit his throat, tease wide his belly with a knife?’
‘You would be wise to do the same to me.’
‘There are ways to punish misjudged threat, means to chasten animals which strain insolent at their leash.’
‘I do not fear you.’ Courage was in the countenance, lie was carried in the trembling. ‘I do not fear you.’
‘You should.’
Another voice broke in, the words soft and insinuating. Intrigued, the Lord of Arsur swung the torch, directed illumination towards a figure crouched low and angular in a recess. The boy was tall and spare, his head crowned by red stubble, his frame hunched in fawning supplication. Yet it was his face that merited interest. At once deferential and knowing, it exuded the confidence of survival, the craven submissiveness of one who understood authority and was choosing to serve it. All in a glance. The Lord of Arsur had found a willing worker.
Gunther, the woodsman’s son, spoke again. ‘Neither is of worth to you, my lord.’
‘Are you of worth?’
‘I will kill them both at your command, will obey you as they defy. Zepp has no speech. He is weak and broken. Egon is well trusted, will inspire mutiny and revolt among the rest.’
Egon shouted and tried to reach him. ‘You dare say this?’
‘See how he agitates, my lord?’ Gunther leered mocking at the older boy. ‘He is a brute who will cause trouble, a barbarian who will carry others with him.’
‘You traitor.’ The blacksmith’s son quivered with rage and incomprehension.
‘My lord, how he speaks to me is reflected on you. He is deserving of your harshest sanction.’
Egon stared. ‘Why, Gunther?’
‘Why must there be whys?’
The Lord of Arsur watched in calm fascination. There was stark beauty to suffering and injustice, an honesty and symmetry in seeing wrong prevail. Gunther was a fine discovery. As light drew the good, so darkness gathered deeper shades of black. It was the attraction of likes. The offspring of a woodsman had come over to his side. He would exploit it, would find employment for this busy and malignant young soul.
‘You think too hard, Kurt.’
The youngster did not turn at the sound of Otto’s voice. He was looking out across the rise and fall of hills towards the pale and distant bastion of Castel Blanc and the setting sun beyond. An enchanted place suffused in deepening gold. Here on the roof of the Warden’s Tower, in the inner fort of Krak des Chevaliers, a child could abandon the cares of the world, might become absorbed in the mystery and splendour of the setting. But the pose of the boy suggested only worry.
‘Do you remember how the old Hospitaller spoke, Otto?’
‘He vowed he would not eat us.’
‘More than that.’ Kurt darted a glance of earnestness at his friend. ‘He told us we inhabit an island placed upon a sea of troubles and buffeted by infidel storm. He claimed the Beast walks abroad, and soon will devour the world.’
‘They are the ramblings of an ancient who resides too long in a cellar.’
‘You saw him as I, heard his insight to our pasts and present. Out there is danger and darkness, Otto.’
‘What I discern is a landscape of beauty, a sun that dips and casts its lengthening rays.’
‘But we do not share the s
ight he possesses.’
‘Be thankful for it, Kurt.’ The noble boy approached and rested a brotherly arm across his shoulder. ‘Whatever we face, we stand together.’
‘I trust so, Otto. Yet many with whom I started have gone, many friendships have been broken by death. There was a girl . . .’
He paused, reminiscence and sorrow pulling him back into silence. They stood side by side, both sharing and isolated in their thoughts. Outside the walls were the opposing worlds of the Franks and the Mohammedans, the galloping hooves of horses, the flying arrows of skirmishers and raiding-parties. It was safer to hide, to stand remote on the roof of a fortress. Yet Otto already wore his cuirie armour, had once more donned sword and scabbard. It was coming to the moment of departure.
As though wary of emotion, Kurt resumed in low monotone. ‘They are all of them vanished, and I will not see them again. Hans, Albert, Roswitha, little Lisa, Egon, Zepp and Achim. Every last one of the children in my village.’
‘You are no child, Kurt. You stepped to manhood the day you took up staff and headed from Cologne.’
‘So why do I ache? Why do I grieve? Why do I long for the peace of climbing trees and searching nests?’
‘Because we each of us yearn for others to carry the load. Now we learn to bear our own.’
‘Are you still intent to find your father?’
‘As much as I ever was. Do you still wish to discover the True Cross?’
‘It is why I am here.’
‘Then our close and loyal band continues.’
The twelve-year-old nodded and stepped back. Brother Luke might be elsewhere, everyone he had ever known scattered, but he had walked through fire to reach this point and he would journey on and make the end. The shrivelled old Hospitaller with his strange symbols and coloured fire had been correct. Answer for ever lay within.
Otto walked him to the flight of steps, and the two of them descended.
From the harbour mouth beyond the walls of the Templar castle of Tortosa, a small boat again carried Brother Luke towards the fortress island of Arwad. This time he made the trip in chains.
Chapter 15
Moonlight and instinct would guide their way. They had saddled up and ridden from Krak des Chevaliers in the silver dusk, had snaked down to the road running westward for Tortosa. A strange landscape of mist and half-light, of low ground obscured by night shadow and rising to escarpments glowing soft. With fortune kind, they would be greeted in the coastal stronghold by Brother Luke; a missed rendezvous, and they would travel south and unaccompanied by the friar to the Cistercian monastery in the hill folds above Tripoli. The plan was simple, a further staging-post in the onward trek to Acre.
Sergeant Hugh led. Behind, Kurt swayed to the gait of his commandeered steed, watched the figure of the bowman merge with that of the horse, listened to the thudding trot of twelve iron-shod hooves.
There seemed to be more, the muffled and irregular sound of others intruding. He cocked an ear. A vibration, a feeling, a trick of his mind or heartbeat. The noise came again, never quite rising to a clatter or falling below the vague suggestion of a presence. They were being followed.
‘Otto.’ He murmured a warning to the older boy riding at his side.
But the young noble had already heard. His sword scraped free of its scabbard; his mount gathered pace and the lead-rein was surrendered.
‘You are now free-rider, Kurt. Do as I do, and abstain from sudden move or dash.’
‘How are we to act?’
‘With cool heads and steadiness. Run and we become their prey to chase.’
‘They will have lances, arrows, swords.’
‘And you have pluck and nerve, young brother.’
The twelve-year-old begged to differ at this moment, but his friend carried authority and conveyed confidence, wore leather breastplate and held a drawn blade. That blade had done much to save them in the past. He replicated the moves of the noble boy, staying with him as he quickened to catch the Englishman. In his ear, Isolda was whispering a prayer. The soft tremor in her voice, the tightening of her fingers on his sides were the main betrayers of her terror.
‘It will be all right, Isolda. It will be all right.’
‘Are they again slavers, Kurt? Do they come in vengeance to kill or capture us?’
‘We will give them hard fight, whatever they intend.’
In muttered conversation, Otto and Sergeant Hugh were exchanging views, debating tactics. For ambushers, the trailing enemy were proving more timid than committed. Perhaps they were curious, or corralled the quartet towards an open trap. The bowman spoke sotto voce to his brood.
‘Walls rise about us and our sole escape is ahead. On my command, you will continue steady for the beat of a minute before breaking into gallop. I will slip to the side, will drench them with a rain of arrows.’
‘Ride with us, Sergeant Hugh.’ The noble boy urged him in a low voice. ‘You must.’
‘Must? We have before had words about your knightly conceits.’
‘Concern, not conceit, Sergeant Hugh.’
‘Disobey me and I shall haunt you, Alzey.’
‘We run together or will make our stand.’
‘Sweet Jesu, you will yet dig my grave.’ Exasperation saturated the words of the soldier. ‘Very well, on my count you will ride as though hell itself were on your tails, will divide only when you find gorge or indentation to explore. One, two . . .’
‘Sergeant Hugh!’
Kurt had picked them out, yelled with the fury of sudden discovery. They were a phalanx of silent horsemen, as still as the surrounding hills and just as impermeable. And they waited ahead while their brethren herded the Christians on.
‘Put up your sword, Otto.’
‘Submit without a charge, without so much as raising this weapon in our defence?’
‘A good soldier is one who measures probability and event.’ The Englishman reined to a halt. ‘Our luck is out. Know and accept it, be composed in your response.’
‘I will not take lightly to a swarm of quarrel-flights let loose in our direction.’
‘Should they wish to finish us, they will do so in any event.’
‘Meanwhile, Sergeant Hugh?’
The bowman gazed forward, exhaling in weary acknowledgement. ‘It appears our plan is changed.’
He must have been a potentate of sorts, an aged and magnificent sheikh dressed in finery and courteous in a remote and regal fashion. Another sight to remember. Kurt observed the white beard and commanding eyes, the egg-sized emerald set in the pommel of his sheathed sword, the studied fawning of officers and servants. Clearly a leader of some influence and power, and currently their host. Sergeant Hugh must have recognized him. The Englishman was scowling, had the air of a man who knew he was in the presence of greatness, understood he was negotiating for his life. He had been pushed forward as the youngsters were held back, spoke with this ruler in the incomprehensible tongue of the Arab. It was not a meeting of minds or comrades. The boy could only watch and guess, huddle close as bystander to his sister and his friend.
Saphadin was imperious still. ‘I come from Homs to hunt golden jackal and desert fox, to capture Hospitallers on foul sortie from their fortress. Instead, I chance upon a snake.’
‘A benign snake, your majesty. One that wishes no ill.’
‘One that nonetheless is worst of vermin, the most vexing and baneful kind of any heathen creature.’
‘Such judgement is harsh, al-Adil.’
‘You are in no place to contest it.’
And that was true enough. The Englishman did not struggle as a Mamluk guard bound his hands behind his back. He had fought or dodged the Saracen for the span of his adult life, hardly expected warm reception and convivial conversation. Saphadin was worthy of his respect. The sentiment went unreturned.
‘It is twenty years since last we met, Hugh of York.’
‘Time heals injury and calms the angry soul, al-Adil.’
‘O
r it permits wrongs to fester that go unpunished.’ The Sultan radiated threat in his serenity. ‘You escorted the emissaries of Cœur de Lion to our lines, were present when we tried to parley release of our captured garrison at Acre.’
‘An unfortunate and ugly episode.’
‘You were there too when your king sacked further strongholds and spared no lives, when he laid waste our lands and butchered our people.’
‘War conjures much atrocity, al-Adil.’
‘So it does.’ The look was both distant and penetrating. ‘I served my brother, the great Salah ad-Din. You served your English lord, Richard, King of England.’
‘The part I played was of small effect.’
‘Yet consequence is great. You were witness and accomplice, have the blood of True Believers on your hands. Now I am sultan and you are scavenging beast, a belly-crawler who feeds on the droppings and trinkets of honest men, who robs merchants and traders and profits from misdeed.’
‘I help these children towards Palestine, your majesty.’
‘For what gain?’
A curt nod from Saphadin, and the Englishman was forced to his knees. The decision was already made. Sergeant Hugh began to sweat, his eyes darting, his skin paling to a lighter shade of grey. Somehow, his past had caught up; some way, his gift for patter and dealing had fled. He crouched alone at his very own site of execution.
He peered upward at the ruler. ‘There is peace accord between our nations, al-Adil.’
‘Do you see peace?’
‘Where there is obstruction and travail there is also hope.’
‘In your case there is none, Hugh of York.’
The swordsman was brought, a tall figure in waistcoat and tighter-fitting clothes that would impede neither swing of the arms nor action of the blade. Translation was unnecessary. The steel instrument was keen and straight, its edges gleaming.
Isolda gasped. ‘Otto, stop them! Sergeant Hugh, you must fight, must resist!’
‘Hush now, little one.’ The bowman stared ahead to an imagined point beyond the tented walls. ‘I go to a place where every soldier ends.’
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