“This is the Eastern gate.”
The palace guard drew rein and controlled his mettlesome mare with difficulty while directing one of the soldiers to come down off the ramparts to open the gate. Raoul sat impassively and half-listened as they talked.
“Who’s this, then, Jhavid?” the man asked, setting down his bow. “Some peasant bringing in goods to trade?”
The guard laughed.
“No! He’s a messenger from the Frankish King. Impressive, ain’t he?”
“They must be getting desperate. Is he to carry a flag of truce?””
“He should but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s either drunk or stupid as far as I can see.”
“There’s not much happening anyway. I think they’re all still asleep.”
“Right, you – off you go now.”
The gate had been opened sufficiently to allow a single horseman to ride through. Above him, on the ramparts, a line of archers fitted arrows to their bows in case of a sudden attack. Raoul kicked the beast’s flanks with his heels. It didn’t move.
“Go on, you brute!”
The soldier who had opened the gate brought down his hand in a hard slap on its rump. It flung up its head and whinnied.
“Get moving!”
The palace guard jabbed it with the tip of his sword and it sprang forward, almost unseating Raoul. As they dashed out, the gates crashed shut behind them and there was a roar of laughter from the battlements. A tiny spark of anger flared in Raoul’s heart.
After a short headlong gallop, the old horse dropped its pace to a canter and then a walk, its sides heaving with exhaustion. Raoul patted its neck and spoke encouragingly to it. Orchards were clustered round this side of the city and they rode slowly through the lines of laden fruit trees. In the distance the smoke and tents of the Crusader camp could be seen but although the sun had risen some hours ago there seemed to be little activity. He would have to report to the royal command, he supposed, and although the Emir had treated him well there would be some satisfaction in swinging a sword at those who had jeered at him.
There was a distant shout and the sound of crashing metal. He suddenly realised why there was no movement in the camp. They had ridden out to meet an enemy force who was attacking them from outside the city. Perhaps Nur Ed-Din had arrived to raise the siege. How strong was the Crusader army? Strong enough to defeat two Islamic forces at once? Raoul kicked the horse frantically, jolted back to life by the realisation of what must be happening. Once the Damascenes realised that their enemy was under attack they would pour out of the city in their thousands, desperate for Christian blood. Raoul must get a sword from somewhere and re-join his comrades.
“Come on, old fellow!” He kicked the horse again but it didn’t change its plodding pace.
By now he could see as well as hear the battle. A sea of brightly coloured banners had engulfed the field and everywhere Frankish knights seemed to be outnumbered by Saracens, easily recognisable by their pointed helmets. The horse suddenly flung up its head and stopped dead. Someone was riding towards them, fast. It was a Crusader knight swinging a mace.
“Death to the Infidel!” the knight roared, pounding towards them.
“Stop! I’m a Christian!” Raoul cried desperately. He hauled at the halter, trying to turn the horse to avoid the coming blow. “I’m French! I’m a Crusader!”
Raoul’s attacker heard nothing. He galloped relentlessly on towards his target. Somehow, just as the full weight of destrier and heavily armed knight was almost upon them, Raoul managed to swing the horse round, deflecting the weapon’s impact so that it caught the side of his head instead of shattering his unprotected skull. He swayed dizzily, deafened and almost blinded. The knight thundered past then turned. Raoul could see the blood-crazed eyes gleaming in anticipation of the kill, could feel the hot breath of the war-horse as it charged towards him again. This time there would be no reprieve. This time he would die – cut down unarmed by a fellow-Christian, a brother-in-arms. He closed his eyes and waited.
There was a whistling sound and a sharp choked cry. Raoul opened his eyes and blinked. The great destrier was galloping away, rider-less. On the ground yards away lay the knight, his throat neatly pierced by a Saracen arrow. The bowman was riding towards him.
“You’re injured,” the man said in a voice that seemed oddly familiar. “You should seek medical attention in the city unless your home is ... Raoul!”
He tried to focus his eyes on this man in front of him who seemed to know who he was.
“I can’t...my head...” His vision blurred and he slid sideways to the ground.
When he came to he was lying on the ground in the patch of shade under a tree. Shahin Miah was sitting next to him, looking anxious.
“Shahin,” Raoul said. He reached out and gripped his friend’s hand. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question, my friend – especially as you seem to be unarmed and dressed in Arab clothes.”
Raoul tried to sit up but his head hurt so fiercely that he groaned and lay back.
“It’s quite a long story,” he said.
“I shall hear it some other day – God willing. For the present I am with the force of Nur Ed-Din and must return to the field of battle. I have bandaged your head as best I can and I shall leave you this sword and some water. I am sorry I cannot do more.”
Raoul looked at his friend with a slight smile.
“You saved my life, Shahin. If you are fighting for Islam you should not have. I do not even know if I am grateful.”
“Our destiny is written, my friend. Nothing can alter that.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“Do not attempt to leave here until nightfall – you look even more like an Arab with the bandage round your head. Another of your Christian friends might finish the job the other one began. You should be safe enough here, though. I will return to you if I can. If not, your horse – if you can call it that – is tied to this tree.”
“Thanks.”
“Fare well, Raoul. We shall meet again, I am sure. And under happier circumstances.”
“Fare well.”
He gripped Shahin’s hand and watched him mount up and ride away. Far away in the distance he could still hear the sounds of battle but he knew he would take no part in it. His head throbbed agonisingly and he very much doubted whether he could stand even if he wanted to, let alone fight. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into slumber.
During what seemed to be an extraordinarily long day, Raoul drifted in and out of sleep. Whenever he woke he drank from the water bottle, listened for a while to the sounds of battle, and then slept again. Once when he woke, it was fully dark. He had forgotten where he was and for a moment he thought he was still in the Paradise Garden.
“Aysha,” he called softly, “are you there?”
A breeze rustled the leaves on the tree above his head and with a sickening jolt, memory returned. Tears filled his eyes and he sobbed, his head throbbing, his eyes stinging, pain racking him. Why had he avoided the mace’s blow? Why had Shahin saved him? Why did living have to hurt so much?
Eventually he must have slept again as the next time he opened his eyes it was just starting to get light. His head didn’t feel as bad so he sat up cautiously. He felt shaky and a little dizzy but definitely better. He drank some more water and looked round. He was in an orchard. Using the trunk of the nearest tree for support, he stood up. The old horse raised his head and whinnied softly.
“You’re there, old fellow, are you?” Raoul said. “I think I should go now and I don’t know how far I can walk. But how the devil am I going to mount you? You’re so big and I feel so weak.” He walked gingerly over to the horse and patted its shoulder. “Perhaps I should leave you here.”
The horse reached out and nuzzled into Raoul’s neck.
“Don’t you like that idea, eh? All right, Kabir – that seems like a good name for you as you’re such a giant. You ca
n come with me. God knows why.”
He untied the halter from the branch and clicked his tongue softly. The old horse allowed himself to be led away. There was a sawn off stump of a tree merely a few hundred yards from where Raoul had lain and with its aid he was able to mount. Kabir stood quietly while Raoul settled himself on his broad back. It was almost as if he wanted to be of use.
By the time the sun had come up, they had left the orchards behind. They were on an arid plain which stretched for miles, its edge marked by the purple smudge of distant hills. Scattered everywhere, in their hundreds, were the bodies of Crusader knights and their horses. Kabir rolled his eyes and baulked, alarmed by the sight and smell. Raoul spoke soothingly to him and urged him on. Above, high in the sky, scavenger birds wheeled.
It grew hotter. The sun blazed down relentlessly out of a cloudless sky and the ground ahead shimmered in the heat. Raoul felt parched with thirst but he knew that the water bottle was nearly empty. He daren’t finish it yet.
With a sudden jolt of recognition, Raoul realised that he had seen all this before. It had been in that dream. He had been walking through the heat, as now, weak, thirsty, with dead and dying knights around him. Where had he been? Of course, in the crone’s hut in Brocéliande. He had also dreamed of the tower at Radenoc that night although it had been rather different in reality; there had been a girl in the dream too – but he hadn’t met her. Here, now, he was in Arab dress and was riding poor old Kabir – which was also different from his dream. And these knights were all dead; there could be no doubt about that.
Time passed and Kabir plodded on. At times Raoul fell into a doze, but the big horse just carried on steadily walking, needing no encouragement from his rider. Sometime after mid-day, Raoul saw the distant figure of a man walking about amongst the dead. At first he thought it was an illusion, another mirage created out of the heat and his weakness, but when he continued to see him he knew he must be real. He was going from one knight to another and as Raoul gained on him he could see that he was searching each one and possibly robbing him too. Was he an Arab or a Frank? His clothes suggested the latter. Raoul increased his pace and drew the curved sword from his belt.
Suddenly the man ahead gave a hoarse cry and flung himself towards another sprawled Crusader. He lifted up a fallen banner and waved it triumphantly above his head. As Raoul recognised Tréguier’s colours, horror swept over him. Instead of being anonymous corpses, the bodies suddenly became those of his friends and companions. He should have been searching through them like this man, looking for Pierre, Gustave and all of his former comrades. He pulled Kabir to a halt, slid to the ground and broke into a run.
“Hey, you there!” he called. “Is it the Count? Is he dead?”
The man had flung the banner down and now he swung round, a dagger glinting in his hand. At that instant Raoul recognised Mathieu Le Gros. Even here on the battlefield he was pursuing his personal feud with the de Bourbriac family. This time Raoul didn’t hesitate. Swinging the Saracen blade as Shahin had taught him, he charged towards the Breton, breaking the man’s neck and practically severing his head with a single sweeping blow. Panting, dizzy from the sudden exertion, he extricated the sword and stood still for a moment. Now where was Tréguier?
A knight lay near the banner. That must be him. Had the Breton’s cry been one of delight because his enemy was already dead? Raoul crossed to the body and rolled it over. It wasn’t the Count. It was Bertrand de Courcy. Raoul knelt beside him, removed the close-fitting Norman helmet, and examined him swiftly. Remarkably he was still breathing. His tunic was ripped and blood-stained but he wore a protective mail-shirt under it. Perhaps he had collapsed from the heat rather than from a wound. Raoul hurriedly pulled off the tattered remnants of the tunic and hauled him out of his hauberk. Lying in the sun in one of these must be like being baked alive, Raoul thought. It was a wonder that Bertrand wasn’t already dead. Then, as he laid him down again, he noticed the terrible wound in his leg. A blade had sliced right down the length of his thigh and the thick stuff of his leggings was caked with dried blood. The ground on which he was lying was stained dark from the bleeding, and moving him had made the wound start to bleed again. Raoul quickly snatched up the banner and tore the silk into strips. He then made a pad of Bertrand’s tunic and bound it in place as tightly as he could. He must have lost a huge amount of blood. What had Nazrat Ali said? A deep wound must be stitched straight away and the patient given nourishing foods. Was it too late? He must try to find some shelter without delay. Where was Kabir?
The old horse stood patiently waiting a short distance away. He raised his head and whinnied when Raoul went across and picked up the halter rope.
“Come along now, my friend.” He stroked the horse’s soft nose. “We have work to do.”
With considerable difficulty Raoul managed to hoist Bertrand across the big horse’s back. Luckily, Kabir stood passively while Raoul struggled. Again it was almost as if he wanted to help. Although he knew the rough handling was doing little to improve Bertrand’s chances of survival, out here on the open plain he had none whatsoever. On a sudden impulse, before they set off, Raoul went back to Le Gros’s body, heaving it over onto its back. He detached the purse from the man’s belt and opened it. As he had suspected the Breton had been systematically stripping valuables from the bodies he examined. There were several rings, some of them bloodied as if fingers had been sliced off in order to get them. There was also a large number of silver and gold coins. The jewellery he would take back to Jerusalem, he decided. King Louis could dispose of it as he saw fit. The money might be very useful. He put the whole purse into his pocket and went back to Kabir.
They walked on for some time. If anything it seemed to be hotter than ever, and there was no shade. Once or twice Raoul stumbled and nearly fell. Every now and again he checked to make sure that Bertrand was still breathing. Then eventually, in the distance, he noticed a line of stunted trees. The range of hills was much closer now and the ground had started to rise. Although the going was hard, Raoul quickened his pace and urged Kabir on. A short time later he realised that nestling under the shade of two of the larger trees was a small roughly built hut. Before he had reached it, an old woman appeared in the doorway.
“Greetings, mother. Peace be upon you!” Raoul said in Arabic, bowing courteously.
“And upon you,” she replied, taking a step out into the sunshine. She was small and immensely fat, with a dark veil tied over her hair. “What have you there? Is it one of the cursed foreigners? Is he dead?”
Raoul anxiously examined Bertrand again.
“Not yet. Have you somewhere that I can put him while I tend his wound?”
The old woman spat.
“Why would you wish to? Let him die. Let them all die. Murdering heathen dogs.”
“If this man lives he will make my fortune,” Raoul explained. “I’m a poor man and I want to buy a little land, perhaps get myself a beautiful wife.” The woman nodded and chuckled appreciatively. “This foreigner is a great lord and his family will pay an enormous price for his return: a thousand besants, maybe more. But they’ll pay nothing for his corpse.”
“In that case, young man, you may bring him in and welcome. Especially if you’re prepared to share a little of your fortune with the poor country folk who help you.”
“I found money on him. I can pay for our food and lodging.”
“Allah’s blessings be upon you. Mohammed! Mohammed!” She shuffled to the side of the hut and yelled at the top of her voice. “Come here at once. We have wealthy visitors! What’s your name, young man?”
“Abdul, mother.” It was the first name he thought of.
“And where do come from?”
“My family lives near Antioch but I travelled to Damascus in the hope of becoming rich. And now with God’s help, I will.”
A little old man, as thin as his wife was fat, appeared from among the trees nearby. He carried two heavy buckets on a yoke across his shoulders.
“Come now, Mohammed. Let us lift this fellow down from the horse. We’ll put him in the wood shed if you’ve no objections. Our house is small.”
A short time later Kabir had been tethered and given water and fodder. Bertrand had been laid on the mud floor of a small lean-to at the back of the hut. The old woman now squatted beside him, shaking her head dubiously as she looked at the wound in his leg. Raoul had peeled back the bandages and between them they had cut away his leggings.
“I don’t like the look of it,” she muttered. “I’ve a draft you can give him but I doubt if that wound will heal.”
From the knowing way she spoke Raoul realised that she’d seen and treated many injuries in the past. Instinct told him that he could trust her.
“Have you a needle, mother?”
“Aye, of course I have – I’ve some good ones Mohammed made me out of fish bones.”
“Can you give me one and some thread – and a sharp knife, too? And can we boil up some water?”
“Nothing easier, boy. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know whether it will work but I’m going to try something which was once done to me. His chances are so slim anyway. I have to take the risk.”
Raoul found his attempt at stitching the wound a nerve-racking ordeal. He remembered that in the infirmary at Kareem’s house everything had been spotlessly clean so he scrubbed his hands and boiled the knife, the needle and even the thread before starting work. He cleaned the wound thoroughly then sewed the flesh swiftly into what seemed like the right place. The old woman had produced a poultice which they bound over the wound with a clean bandage. Finally they managed to get Bertrand to swallow some of a herbal draft which the old woman had prepared.
“It will strengthen him,” she said. “We will let him rest now. Allah will decide whether he is to live or die.”
Raoul sat by Bertrand for the rest of the day. The old man brought him food and sat and talked for a while, boasting of his wife’s skill with herbs.
“They come to her from miles around,” he told Raoul.
The Rightful Heir Page 46