A Sister's Crusade

by Ann Turner

  Richard was forced to admit that, for the first time, he was facing defeat in this crusade. It was a sensation that was new to him and he did not like it. He commanded his men to fight on and push for the Holy City, but they were now in revolt, turning on each other and there was the threat that they could turn on him. He reluctantly gathered his captains together and told them his intention was to turn back. There were not enough men to make this campaign a complete success and there were stirrings of mutiny in his troops. The wise decision would be to retreat back to the coast, wait for the winter to pass and to attempt to capture Jerusalem again when the weather was more clement.

  If Richard had realised it, victory was closer than he had thought. In Jerusalem, Saladin and his armies were also suffering. Starvation and illness were taking their toll on his men and they were in no position to defend the Holy City. Richard and his crusaders would have easily captured it. The English king would have been revered throughout history as the man who brought Christianity back to Jerusalem. Instead, the frustrated king was kicking his heels, impatiently waiting for the seasons to turn again.

  There were constant skirmishes and fierce battles between Christians and Saracens as the New Year began, and as the months and seasons slowly passed. King Richard plotted assaults on Jerusalem. His plan was that he would be crowned King of Jerusalem by Christmas Day and all would bow to him. Then, and only then, would he return to England.

  He had received communications from William Marshal and Hugh de Glanville, who told him that his brother John was gaining more power in the country. John had formed an alliance with King Philip to return several of the Angevin provinces held in France back to the French king. In return, he would support John to usurp Richard to become King of England. Once Jerusalem was his, Richard would return to restore order in his realm. The letters his mother had sent him were full of reprimands about his obsession with this crusade. He was needed back in his own kingdom. In time, Richard thought. I shall return in time. The Holy Land is my destiny and it is here that I shall attain immortality.

  He had set up camp away from Jaffa, and with his captains, plotted the next move on Jerusalem. He was like a captive lion during those long weeks and months. His army was still discontent, and sprang raids on small towns and villages to stave off the boredom of inactivity. For this, the king’s retribution was swift and violent. Those who disobeyed any of his commands, those who were becoming ringleaders to small bands of miscreants, would suffer the anger of their king. Richard would have them flogged or buried in the sand up to their necks. If the crime was considered severe enough, the penalty was to be hanged. Those of noble birth, who were accused of a crime, were forced to fight with their accuser to the death. Rule by the sword, Richard had decreed. Those who think to flaunt my authority shall suffer the consequences and let that be a lesson, he thought. What is done to them, so shall be done to others regardless of rank or title.

  Then, suddenly, during the hot and unbearable summer, when the insects were a plague to the bored Christians, the king received a frantic messenger from Jaffa. The man, weary from the long and tiring ride on his exhausted horse, burst without ceremony into Richard’s tent with the news that Saladin had stormed and retaken the city with a regrouped and revitalised army of thousands. There were many hostages and many had been killed. The messenger told the king that his queen, the dowager queen of Sicily, and her ladies had barricaded themselves into the heavily guarded citadel and were resisting the Saracens’ advance. All the royal ladies were safe and unharmed. The messenger added that it appeared Saladin was losing control of his army. These men were out on revenge for the capture of Acre by the Christians and wanted retribution. They were rioting uncontrollably throughout the city, recklessly raping and murdering anyone who got in their path.

  The messenger further explained that Saladin had warned those in the city to shield themselves from his forces, until he regained control of his army. This wanton behaviour could be their undoing, the king decided and immediately planned his attack to reclaim Jaffa. He picked a small detachment of only two thousand men, including Simon and generals that he knew were good leaders. They marched to the coast and set sail for the surprise attack. This was a tactic Saladin would not expect and they would have the upper hand.

  As anticipated, the Saracens were unprepared for an attack from the sea and Richard easily retook Jaffa, freeing the prisoners, who joined his forces. Saladin was not entirely beaten yet, though, and made a counter-attack with his men, who still outnumbered the Christians. His intention was to attack at dawn, to surprise the Lionheart, and take the city of Jaffa once again. His plans were discovered, but still Saladin led the attack.

  It was a bloody disaster for the sultan. Richard’s bowmen quickly turned dawn back into night with the ferocity of their arrows flying through the sky, which were as thick as a black cloud. The Saracens were easy targets, as their lightweight clothing offered no protection to the deadly arrows. The sultan had no option but to call a retreat. In the fierce battles for the city, both sides had suffered severe loses, but Jaffa was returned to the Christians. The Saracens were defeated and sent back into the desert, licking their wounds. In triumph, Richard removed his helmet and, bareheaded, rode Great William into Jaffa, followed by his men. They felt revitalised and marched behind him, revelling the cheering and adulations from the freed people of Jaffa. This was what they wanted: bloody fights and retribution – not sitting on their arses, stewing in their enforced idleness.

  At the gates of the citadel, Queen Berengaria and Joanna stood waiting to receive the conquering hero. Playing his part, as he knew the masses would want to see, Richard went down on one knee in front of his wife for a blessing as her saviour from the jaws of evil. To wild exultation, the queen likewise performed her duty exactly as she knew it must be seen to be done. She laid a hand on Richard’s golden head and, in a voice that could be heard clearly, blessed and thanked her royal husband for delivering her and his sister back into the safe care of the Christians.

  That night, Richard visited Berengaria in her chamber to her surprise and quiet delight. He dismissed her women and turned smiling to his wife. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to spend the night with her. She was happy to have her husband by her side because he had chosen to be here, and not because he had been shamed into paying court. She had no reason to fear him tonight. He would prove to be amorously attentive during the hours that night, becoming the husband that Berengaria had always wanted. In truth, it was the exhilaration of the recapture of Jaffa that had fired Richard’s libido. His mistress was back at the camp, so he exacted his sexual urge on his grateful wife.

  47

  During the battle for Jaffa, the severely wounded were ferried to makeshift infirmaries. As soon as it was safe, Aubrette, along with the other women, including Berengaria and Joanna, also tended to the wounded. They helped by administering medicines and dressing wounds. The surgeons were kept busy, cutting out arrow heads, stitching up gaping wounds and amputating shattered limbs, that had been stamped on by warhorses. The deceased were quickly carried out and buried to make room for more wounded men. The pitiable sounds of moaning, cries of pain and the putrid smell of gangerous flesh hung heavy in the air. It was depressing and tiring.

  Aubrette, recalling the comfort she had brought the Saracen men while held against her will, would smile sweetly and dress the injuries of the men brought in. She would let them tell her about the conditions on the battlefields, and the death and destruction as men and horses from both sides fell and were trampled on. Some would tell her how they had crushed a man’s skull under their foot, even if the fallen man had still been alive. She would hold the hands of those who were dying, as the padre prayed for their departing souls. He would give the Last Rites as quickly as he could, before moving onto the next man who was approaching his death. She would not let these piteous souls see how their stories or lamentable deaths distressed her. Inst
ead, she would keep her emotions hidden until she was alone. It was only then that she would permit herself to cry bitterly for the poor men, wondering how they could inflict such inhumane savagery on each other in the name of God or Allah.

  There had been heavy losses and, along with the surgeons and other women, Aubrette worked long hours to assist and bring comfort to as many as they could.

  It was into this nightmare that Simon was brought in, having taken a metal splinter from his own sword into his eye, as it had shattered against a Saracen shield. There were also deep wounds to his body and his leg.

  By the time Aubrette found Simon, the surgeons had already attended him. Due to his rank, he had the privilege of laying on a crude bed, though the straw mattress was damp with his own blood and stained from the blood of the previous occupants. His left eye was bandaged, and the other bandages around his leg and torso were already soiled as his blood seeped through the dressing. He lay silently staring upward, totally isolated amid the stench, noise and suffering surrounding him.

  ‘Simon,’ cried Aubrette, as she knelt by his bed. If he did notice her, he gave no indication. She called his name again and his right eye blinked slowly, still not turning to look at her. She touched his arm and he moved it aside, not wanting contact. ‘Let me help you, Simon.’ she entreated, but still he remained silent.

  Reluctantly, she stood up and heaved a big sigh. She would come back to him tomorrow. She was being called to the other men who needed her attention, so she turned away, hoping he might ask her to go back. He did not.

  One of the surgeons, looking up from amputating an arm, called her over instead. The patient was biting hard on a rod as the surgeon quickly cut away the shattered limb. As Aubrette approached, the surgeon inspected the amputated limb and tossed it aside for one of the boys to collect, along with the other body parts that were to be disposed of. He picked up a bucket that held boiling tar and poured the thick substance over the stump that had once been an arm. He then asked one of the other women close by to take over the care of the crusader, who was now swooning with pain and shock.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll make it past tonight,’ the surgeon said, grimly, glancing in Simon’s direction and cleaning his saw that dripped blood.

  Aubrette could not stop herself from breaking into tears. ‘He’s got to. He’s all I’ve got. I’m all he’s got,’ she blurted out.

  The surgeon shrugged. ‘If he wants to die, then he will die. From the look of him, it’s only a matter of hours.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Aubrette replied, stoutly. ‘He has two sons at home waiting for him.’ She turned, ignoring the other men, and went back to Simon, and stood at the foot of his bed. He still did not respond to her. She spoke to him, entreating him to react, but he remained unresponsive. She leaned over and shook his arm, attempting to gain a reaction. All she got from him was to shrug her hands away. Giving up, Aubrette turned aside. There were other men who needed her aid, so she would have to return later. She was determined to not let him die, as the thought of her world without him was too much to contemplate. She realised she needed Simon Fitzroy in her life and made time between the other wounded men to see him.

  On her ensuing visits to Simon, he lay in the same position. The dressings over his injuries had changed, but still he stared silently upwards. She would passionately appeal to him to listen, but all pleading went unheeded. She tried to get him to eat and drink, all Simon would do was clamp his mouth shut. The doctor’s submission that he wanted to die appeared to be correct. Others brought in at the same time as him had survived and many were showing signs of improvement. Eventually, after another fruitless session when she had been ignored totally, Aubrette threw her arms up in exasperation.

  ‘If you die, what will happen to me? I only stay here because of you! Where can I go if you die? Think about Eustace and Raymond! What will happen to them?’ she paused, waiting. ‘Simon, are you even listening to me?’

  He remained silent, still staring upwards.

  She kicked the leg of the bed in frustration. ‘You are being selfish now. Think about who you will leave behind if you give in and die! How can I get back to England on my own? I once thought you were the bravest man in the king’s army, but you are not. This is letting the Saracens win. You are nothing but a snivelling coward, who is afraid to live. Go on then, die. I am better off without you and will take my chances on my own!’ she shouted in anger.

  A solitary tear ran down from his uninjured eye. He had heard. ‘I am finished. I am dead,’ he said, his voice no more than a feeble whisper.

  Aubrette was by his side in an instant, holding his cold hand to her own tear-streaked cheek. ‘No you are not, you must live for your sons. You must go home to your sons – our sons,’ she urged.

  Simon was silent again, not looking towards Aubrette. Eventually, he spoke slowly. ‘Our sons,’ he repeated, as though attempting to remember. She nodded urgently. He drew a pitiful breath. ‘They hurt me and they tried to kill me,’ he suddenly recalled, his voice trembling. ‘They were everywhere! I could hear their war cries everywhere! Men were falling all around me, and they’d come and cut off heads and hands. There were severed arms and legs all around me, hacked to pieces, Christian and Saracen. I couldn’t tell which was which.’

  He paused, his eye wide with terror, swivelling in its socket. ‘I was speared in the leg and I went down, falling from my horse. I lost my helmet as I fell and landed on a dead horse. The horse had a man still with it, with blood spilling from his head. He was alive and trapped under its body. He was shouting for help and I could not help. Then I saw a Saracen coming directly at me! Our swords clashed and I fought him, determined to send that bastard to hell. I knocked his scimitar from his hand. I brought my sword down to dispatch him, but he raised his shield for protection and my sword splintered. I felt the pain as a shard went into my face.’ Simon covered his face with his shaking hands, feeling with horror the fabric of the bandage. His voice continued, quavering, ‘I felt a pain in my side, my legs gave way and I fell. I felt blood on my face, tasted the blood in my mouth – everything went red and felt warm. I could not see as the blood was in my eyes. Oh, God, my eye hurts! Stop the hurt in my eye, please stop the hurt!’

  He began to tear at the bandage that was covering his eye, sobbing hysterically. Aubrette tried to pull his hands down to stop him and screamed for help, but still with his injuries, he had his strength and pulled the dressing from his face. The bandage fell away and Aubrette saw the full horror of his injury. His eye socket was a cavity of blood, ragged skin and ruptured eyeball. She staggered back, stupefied at the sight, and covered her mouth with her hands to prevent the screams and the vomit erupting outwards.

  Simon covered his face with his hands and felt the damaged socket where his eye had been. He cried aloud in terror and confusion. Aubrette snatched up the bandage and attempted to calm him down. He was tossing from side to side in a panic, flailing his arms wildly, and shouted and shouted for the pain to go away. Eventually, assisted by other physicians laying across him to make him still, he grew silent, trembling in shock, and allowed her to replace the bandage.

  ‘While you heal and recover,’ Aubrette encouraged, stroking his hair back from his perspiring brow.

  Simon fell back against the pillow, panting, trembling violently and became silent again. He refused once more to speak and placed a hand over his bandaged eye. She brought him some food but he would not eat. When she tried to hold a cup of wine to his lips, he dashed it aside, turning his head away. She tried to bathe his face, but he knocked her hand away – not wanting any physical contact. Aubrette spent as much time as possible tending to him. She changed the dressings, though she was still repulsed by the sight of his mutilated face. She would not let him see how she felt. She would talk about their future; how they would go to Cyprus and then go home, where she would care for him for as long as he wished.
She kept talking about his sons, attempting to draw a reaction from him. Occasionally, she would see an emotive response flicker in his eye and his mouth would firm into a tight line as though attempting to suppress the awareness of his situation. She was determined to see him recover and asked him timelessly what would he do once they returned home. He would not respond. Simon had reverted back into his silent, solitary world of pain.

  The physicians insisted that Aubrette turn her attentions from Simon to the latest casualties that were brought in. They needed her just as much as this one man. Reluctantly, she did as she was told. However, as soon as she had a spare moment, she would return back to tend to his wounds and talk to him in a continuous effort to raise a reaction.

  To Aubrette’s joy and the amazement of the physicians, Simon gradually began to respond to her incessant talk and care. He had started to eat a little and take sips of ale. The wounds on his body and leg were healing, though both would leave scars, and his damaged eye was responding to the medication prescribed to him by the physicians.