“Of course.” The guards exchanged a glance. “He is the Emperor’s own physician.”
“Could you send someone to ask him – to beg him – to come to the Breton part of the Crusader camp? Raoul de Metz, whom he recently treated at the house of Master Rawnak Kareem, requests his presence urgently.”
The guards conferred rapidly in their own language, which was neither Greek nor Arabic, Raoul noticed. Then one nodded.
“I will take your message. You have powerful friends, it seems. But whether the great physician will visit your Frankish...midden... is another question altogether.”
The man bowed curtly, turned and strode away into the labyrinth of streets.
“Please give your friend my thanks – and this.” He held out a coin to the other man who spat, but took it.
Raoul then hurried back to the camp.
While he waited, Raoul managed to improve matters a little in Tréguier’s tent. He despatched the surly squire to his own quarters. He threw out the rotting foodstuffs and other refuse in the tent and pinned up the flap to allow a little light and air to penetrate the fetid interior. He had been taught that too much ventilation was dangerous but surely it could not be worse for a sick man than this stifling malodorous darkness. He could do nothing about the bedding without moving Paul and this he was loath to do. He was afraid to jar the wounds and set them bleeding again. He could see where they must be – the blood-stains on the bandages suggested many large cuts to the abdomen. The boy was still breathing but he felt cold to the touch. Raoul knew only a miracle could save him – or an expert doctor. He had supreme faith in Nazrat Ali’s skill.
Once he had done all he could, he warmed some water over the fire, sat by Paul’s side and gently bathed his forehead. The boy stirred and muttered something.
“Hush,” Raoul told him. “It will be all right.”
In the time that followed, Paul seemed to become increasingly restless. He rolled his head from side to side on the makeshift pillow and groaned, occasionally crying out as if in fear. Raoul tried to comfort him but the fever mounted until the boy’s youthful features were contorted with delirium and pain. Just when Raoul was finally starting to think that the guard had failed to deliver his message, Pierre put his head round the tent-flap.
“I think your doctor’s coming, Raoul. You’ll tell me I’m wrong, I expect, but he looks like an Infidel to me.”
“He is,” Raoul said with an ironic smile.
As he stood up and came out of the tent, Pierre gazed at him in horror. Sure enough, there was the small stooped figure of the doctor, immaculately dressed in white followed by several similarly dressed attendants, one of whom carried the capacious bag which Raoul remembered from before.
“I am so grateful that you have come,” Raoul greeted the doctor with a respectful bow.
“I do not usually leave the city but as I understand you are not permitted to enter it was necessary to make an exception. Now, there is a problem with the wound, I presume? It looks well enough.”
“No, sir, it is not me who needs your skill. A young man has been most seriously injured...”
Nazrat Ali gave an angry exclamation and began to turn away.
“Sir, please!”
“I do not treat ungodly foreigners.”
“You treated me.”
Nazrat Ali paused and glared at him from beneath his turban.
“I was asked to do so. You had performed a service for a family I respect.”
“Ya sayyid – sir,” Raoul forced himself to control his rising anger, “I know to you we are little more than...animals...but this boy was hurt by the same brute who attacked Lady Kamala and Master Shahin. If I had killed him then this would not have happened. It would be a service to them too if you helped him.”
The doctor shrugged and sighed.
“Very well,” he said reluctantly after a moment’s thought. “I will look at him.”
“He is in here, sir.”
As Raoul preceded him into the small tent, Nazrat Ali made no attempt to conceal his disgust at the squalor. The squire seemed to have either swooned or fallen asleep but his eyes flew open in pained alarm as the doctor knelt by the bed and took hold of his wrist. After a few moments the doctor spoke to the servant with the bag who had followed him inside. The others had prudently awaited their master in the open air. Once the man had nodded and was searching for what was required, Nazrat Ali asked Raoul to keep the patient still and reassure him.
Raoul knelt behind the squire’s head and put his hands on his shoulders, murmuring soothingly. Much to his alarm, the servant now handed his master a vicious-looking knife. Raoul let out his breath in relief as the doctor merely slit the bandages which bound the wounds and carefully peeled them away. He then muttered something and shook his head. Paul grimaced and writhed in pain.
“You can help him, can’t you?” Raoul asked anxiously.
“I fear not. These wounds are too grave.”
“But the stitching! Surely you can...”
“In this case it is not the cuts themselves which are the problem. Had the bleeding been stopped quickly and the wounds kept clean, he might have had a chance but even then it would have been a slim one.”
“But surely even now you can do something – it was a long time after I had been hurt that you saw me.”
The doctor covered the wounds again then rose stiffly to his feet and looked at Raoul with a slight smile.
“Your confidence in me is very touching but here it is misplaced. The main problem is that the body is damaged inside. And then he has lost so much blood. If a cut is very deep – like this – stitching the wound must be done straight away and then the patient given nourishing foods so that the body makes up for its loss. It is too late for your friend. Even if I sewed the wounds he would not recover. I promise you. I am not saying that because I am Arab and he is not. His pulse is very weak. He will not live for more than an hour, two at most.”
“Oh God! If only I had been here instead of...”
“What could you have done? Died in his place? What has happened to him is the will of Allah. I will give you something to help him, to ease the pain.”
He spoke again to the servant who extracted a small bottle from the bag. He handed it to Raoul. There was an inscription in flowing Arabic script on the side.
“One drop of this in water will allow him to slip away peacefully. But I warn you, take good care of any which is left – five drops is sufficient to kill a healthy man, four will kill a woman.”
Raoul looked dubiously at it then at Paul who again appeared to have sunk into an exhausted slumber.
“Thank you,” he said, standing up. “And your fee?”
“I have made no cure so need no payment.”
“But the medicine?”
“The samm is a gift. Use it wisely.”
The doctor ducked under the tent flap, closely followed by his servant. Without bothering to wait or speak further to Raoul, he led his entourage back towards the city.
By the time the Count and the search party returned without finding a trace of Le Gros, Paul, as Nazrat Ali had predicted, was long dead. Seeing his agony and fear, Raoul had given him one of the drops and it had calmed him and allowed him to sleep. Sleep had then turned quietly into his final rest. It was all Raoul could do to help him. A priest had been brought long before he had returned to the camp, to shrive him and say the last prayers – no-one but Raoul had ever believed he could recover.
Once the squire was dead, Raoul had his body washed and decently clothed for burial. He burned the fouled bedding and swept the tent clean.
It was late afternoon when the horsemen rode into the camp.
“You’re back then, de Metz,” the Count said, dismounting from his horse.
Raoul came forward and took the reins.
“As you see, my lord.”
“And Paul?”
“Dead, my lord.”
The knights crossed themselves.
The Count walked over to his tent and the other members of the search party began to dismount and lead their horses away.
“Well?”
Raoul, still holding the destrier’s reins, looked up at de Courcy.
Bertrand dismounted and cleared his throat. He seemed to be finding it hard to meet Raoul’s eyes.
“Tréguier thought perhaps you might agree to be his squire,” he said diffidently.
“His squire?” Raoul echoed incredulously. “For a start I’m much older than is customary and according to popular belief lack the appropriate family background. What, if I behave myself and clean his boots well, will I have a chance to win my spurs? And when will that be? When I’m thirty, a mere nine years too late? It’s absurd, de Courcy, and you know it. If I was going to become a knight I should have been a squire years ago.”
“I don’t know about knighthood – he didn’t mention that. He just thinks that you’re...intelligent, a good fighter, someone he can trust.”
“Oh yes, and what do you think?”
“We’re talking about my father-in-law, not me. You know my opinion of you.”
“Why is it necessary for him to have a squire? A page could groom his horse and cook his meals.”
“Le Gros intends to kill him, Raoul. It’s only a matter of time before he tries again.”
Noticing Bertrand’s presumably unconscious use of his first name, Raoul grinned.
“Very well then, Bertrand. I agree – if only because I can see that you dislike the idea even more than I do.”
De Courcy muttered something under his breath and strode away, leading his horse.
Chapter Twenty-One
The French army left Byzantium the next morning at dawn. The Emperor had neither given them supplies nor sent an envoy to bid the Royal party farewell. Louis’s anger and dismay was shared by everyone, down to the lowliest page. Manuel had magnanimously provided a fleet of boats to ferry them across the Bospherus, but it was generally agreed that he had done that merely to hasten their departure.
Once they were assembled on the Asian Shore, the Breton force under Tréguier’s command was positioned, as before, at the end of the vast column. Perhaps a mile from the crossing, two loaded wagons, lashed to a surprisingly fast pace by their drivers, thundered up behind and hailed the knights at the rear.
“His Excellency Rawnak Kareem sends greetings and begs that the Count of Tréguier will accept these few offerings for the men under his command. Where is his troop, please?”
“What’s that?” One of the knights drew rein beside the now stationary carts. “We’re the troop you’re seeking. Let’s see what you’ve brought us.”
He flung back a corner of the tarpaulin covering the nearest one.
“Holy Mother! There’s enough food here to last us for months. Fetch the Count, someone.”
The drivers touched their hands to their heads respectfully and started to clamber down.
“There is further gift for Master Raoul de Metz – he is here, please?”
“Raoul! You’re wanted!”
A knight rode forward and summoned him from his position near the front of the troop. Tréguier had already reached the wagons and was exclaiming in delight and amazement. One of the drivers was explaining again where they had come from. The other approached Raoul as he rode up on Hercules.
“My master asks you please to accept this.”
The man bowed then handed up a small leather bag. Raoul took it dubiously and looked inside. It was full of gold coins.
For a moment he considered refusing it, then he remembered what Daniel Guennec had said when Félice had sent him money years before – “fat purses buy good dinners”. It was true. In the weeks ahead gold might be very useful. Of course Kareem had known his likely reaction – it was why he hadn’t offered this to him yesterday.
The driver was watching him anxiously.
“Give your master my thanks,” Raoul said, “and tell him I will repay his generosity one day.”
The man grinned.
“Good, ya sayyid. I can return to my master without fear, if I must say this.”
Willing drivers for the two wagons were now found from among the foot soldiers. Kareem’s servants bowed and began to walk away.
“We’ve you to thank again, Raoul,” Tréguier said, riding up to his new squire and giving him a hearty slap on the back. Hercules snorted and sidled. “You’ve a knack of making important friends: I expect great things of you.”
Raoul rode over to the two wagons to check that the precious load was well packed and properly covered – life on the road with Guennec had taught him how vital that was. One corner of the tarpaulin had been loosened and a rope was untied, he noticed. He directed someone to secure it then rode to re-join the Count further forward. They would not go hungry for many days – possibly even for the rest of their journey.
They made steady progress that day and the next, heading towards Nicaea, once the Turkish capital. It had become part of the Byzantine Empire at the end of the previous century and there was a good road to cater for the frequent traffic between the cities. Because of it and Kareem’s gift, the Bretons’ spirits were high. So far, even the weather was being kind to them.
Not far from the city their mood was abruptly changed. A traveller on his way north reported that a terrible fate had overtaken Conrad’s army and the story spread rapidly through the French force: the Germans had been massacred by the Turks. The man said that further south he had seen traders selling German weapons, horses and accoutrements and that, if they followed the same route, they could expect to be similarly dealt with. It was not clear whether the man was pleased or sorry at the prospect.
At first, Louis refused to believe it. He then sent a small number of his knights, on the fastest horses, to go into Nicaea and find out the truth. The news they brought back confirmed what they had heard. Furious at their behaviour in his city, Emperor Manuel had packed the Germans off, as he had the French, with no provisions. Despite lack of water, they had marched south-east, trying to travel to Jerusalem by the most direct route. They had been ambushed by Seldjuk horsemen and, on October 25th had been slaughtered in their thousands. No-one had escaped. The rumour in Nicaea was that the Turks had been tipped off by the Emperor himself.
Once the awful magnitude of the news had sunk in, Louis evidently realised the vulnerability of his own situation. He ordered the army to turn round and head for the coast at the greatest possible speed. Once they reached it, they turned west, following the shore, presumably in the hope that they would not be expected to choose such a roundabout route. There was no slackening of pace: it was as if they were fleeing for their lives.
Again Raoul pitied Queen Eleanor and her ladies who were bounced and jolted over the rough terrain in their litters for as many hours a day as the light lasted. The Bretons’ wagons were as awkward as the litters but no-one was prepared to abandon such precious supplies. Despite the fact that they were well guarded at night, there had already been some pilfering – not much – just enough to cause anger and suspicion which, along with fatigue, did nothing to improve their spirits. As if it knew about their change of mood, the weather had also turned against them. Gale force winds and torrential rain swept down. People muttered that the Turks even had control of the elements.
It was impossible to maintain such a speed for very long. Once they reached the coast and eight days had passed with no sign of the enemy, Louis allowed them to slow down – but only a little.
When they camped one night near ancient ruins, Raoul wondered what the place might once have been. To his surprise he found that none of the knights in their band read Greek and they were totally without interest in the subject. This seemed extraordinary to Raoul. According to his calculation, it might even have been all that remained of Troy, surely the greatest city there had ever been. He wishe
d he could have discussed it with Shahin and his uncle; he was sure they would have known.
The next day they crossed a river then turned south again, still following the coast-line and maintaining a gruelling pace.
Since he had left Byzantium, Raoul had grown quite used to waiting on the Count, caring for his horse and armour and sleeping in his tent at night. Tréguier was hearty, good-humoured and thanked him for his service. There had been no further sign of Le Gros but Raoul took no chances. He slept in his mail-shirt with his drawn sword beside him and lay across the entrance to the tent. The Count claimed that his precautions were excessive, that the brute had been left far behind them. But Raoul wasn’t convinced. Something told him they had not seen the last of him.
Inevitably, while he was with the Count, he had to spend some time in Bertrand’s company. He tried to behave as if de Courcy didn’t exist and Bertrand, for his part, managed to speak to him civilly when he was forced to do so at all. Raoul wondered fleetingly whether he knew anything of the Classics but as he had no intention of engaging him in friendly conversation, he was unable to find out. The only disadvantage that Raoul could perceive of his new status was that he had less time to spend with Pierre and Gustave and he missed their ribaldly humorous company.
One considerable bonus for Raoul was that when Tréguier was summoned by the King along with the other troop leaders, he had to accompany him. He had to stand silently behind his chair but at least he could listen to what was being discussed and closely observe the court circle. To his amusement he noticed that Queen Eleanor, despite the King’s obvious displeasure, not only always attended the councils of war but insisted on expressing her opinions – which were frequently more sensible than her husband’s. She was a beautiful woman with a roguish smile and a forceful personality. He was reminded of another autocratic Eleanor – what would his grandmother think of the Queen? She would approve of her indomitable spirit, he rather thought, but would probably condemn the fact that she was always attended by at least two handsome young knights.
The Rightful Heir Page 33