Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘Strangia’s poor lad. Alone in the world. It’ll be hard for him now. Fine boy, ain’t he?’

  A change had come over the pedlar. His merry manner had dropped away, and he was looking at Adam searchingly, his bottom lip caught in his teeth, as if he was uncertain of something. He seemed to come to a decision, and began to ferret around inside his tunic. His brown eyes, bright as garnets in the wrinkled, weather-beaten leather of his face, were fixed on Adam.

  ‘Your mother’s grave, eh? Died a while ago did she?’

  ‘Buried her this morning, the poor child did,’ one of the women cried out, while the others nodded and clucked sympathetically.

  The pedlar pulled a small leather pouch out of some hidden cavity. He untied the string round the pouch’s neck and withdrew, with seeming reluctance, a little glass bottle. He held it up reverently, and his voice dropped to a deep, solemn tone.

  ‘My last. My very last bottle,’ he said, gravely shaking his head. ‘I always meant to keep it by me just in case, by the will of Our Saviour, I myself was to die far away from a priest. For, as this intelligent young man seems to know, there is, in this simple little bottle, the dust – the very dust – of the Holy City of Jerusalem, on which our dear Lord and his pure mother passed to and fro, blessing the very ground – this ground – on which they trod.’ He shook the bottle gently in front of the now silent, rapt audience. ‘He trod it with his sacred feet.’

  Hands reached out to touch the bottle. A murmur swelled and died again. Adam fumbled desperately inside his pocket and brought out a coin.

  ‘My last penny,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It’s all I have.’

  The pedlar ignored him.

  ‘A sprinkling of this precious – this priceless – dust, on the grave of your loved one will send his – or her – soul straight from hell, within the hour, to the rapture of Paradise. Into the very arms of Jesus.’

  The crowd was impressed.

  ‘A penny!’ Adam pleaded. ‘Give it to me.’

  Slowly, as if regretfully, the pedlar took the penny and held the bottle out to Adam, who grabbed it and pushed his way back through the crowd of women.

  A few minutes later, he was in the graveyard. He knelt by the low mound of soil which marked where Strangia lay, pulled out the stopper, and poured the dry dust from one end of the grave to the other.

  ‘You’ll be all right now, Ma,’ he told the earth. ‘This is the holy dust of Jerusalem. You’ll be in heaven soon. Pray for me there, Ma, to the Virgin.’

  After a few minutes, he stood up, brushed the loose soil from his knees, and with a lighter heart, set off towards the castle.

  The sun was already high in the sky when Adam started along the dusty track that led to Fortis castle. In all his life he’d never set foot inside the towering grey walls. He’d only ever stood at the forbidding gateway, peering into the wide bailey, the open space that surrounded the castle tower itself, which rose, high and formidable, on the great central mound, protecting and threatening at once the countryside all around.

  He paused for a moment at the low wooden bridge over the stream, and turned for a last look at the village. His palms were sweaty with nervousness.

  I hope I see Jennet soon, he thought.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught a movement a little way downstream. Someone was down among the willow trees there.

  He thought it might be Hob, the shepherd. The old man had been kind to him in the past, and had helped Strangia once or twice. He wanted to tell him of his good luck before he went on.

  He stepped back off the bridge and went round behind the willows, his feet making no sound in the grass. From here he could clearly see the sandy bank of the stream, and the thin, scrawny man who was squatting on the dry sand, scooping handfuls of it into little glass bottles, exactly like the one Adam had bought an hour ago and emptied on his mother’s grave. It was Jacques the pedlar.

  It was a moment before Adam took in what he was seeing. Then he felt rather than heard the howl of rage that burst from him, and he leaped forwards.

  ‘You cheat! You swindler! I’ll kill you!’

  The force of his assault sent Jacques flying. He lay on his back, holding his hands up in a feeble attempt to protect himself.

  ‘No, no! You’re wrong! You’re making a mistake! Don’t hurt me! God’s bones, boy, you’re killing me! Listen – wait till I tell you. Ow! Stop it!’

  Adam had landed a satisfying kick against Jacques’s thin ribs. He drew his foot back to kick him again, but there was something so weak and abject about the man lying in the dust in front of him, so helpless and ridiculous, that he couldn’t bear to touch him a second time. Instead he swung round and lashed out at the stump of the nearest willow, bruising his toes.

  Jacques had rapidly crawled out of reach and was now sitting, panting, on his haunches, eyeing Adam like a wary cat.

  ‘You have seen!’ he whined. ‘You knows! I am a cheat. A swindler. Worse than that. A liar! A rogue! But—’ he held up one trembling hand as if to stop Adam interrupting – ‘but it went to my heart to do you wrong. Straight there. It pierced me.’

  He thumped himself on his chest in penitence, but his eyes were crafty and unblinking.

  ‘You – you . . .’ began Adam, lunging forwards.

  Jacques scrabbled backwards. He was still crouching down, his arm held up defensively, as he looked up at Adam with feigned innocence.

  ‘To be honest (though I grant you, I have no right to use the word), to be sincere, I saw that you was in grief. Fresh grief. For a loved one. But what was I to do? My audience was watching me. Everyone knows Jacques! My clients! My patrons! And the dust of Jerusalem – my most famous item.’ He was holding Adam’s eyes, as if trying to mesmerize him. ‘Ah, if only I’d stuck to ribbons and buttons! If only I hadn’t branched out into the sphere of the divine! But, my dear young man, my dear young mourner, tell me just one thing, before you beats the living daylights out of me – as I can see you are itching to do – let me ask you one thing.’

  Adam sprang forwards again, but Jacques was too quick for him. He was up on his feet already and behind the protecting trunk of a willow tree.

  ‘Let me ask you.’ Jacques’s voice was soothing. ‘Did the dust I sold you ease your pain? As you spilled it on to the place where – your mother, was it not – rests in peace, did you not feel something? A sense of certainty? An assurance that her soul was released from its suffering?’

  Adam saw suddenly the fresh earth of Strangia’s grave and the dust floating down on to it, and he remembered the relief that had flooded him as he sensed that her soul was flying to Paradise.

  ‘And who are we to know?’ Jacques had dropped his voice to a deep, thrilling, reverent tone. ‘Can we not opine that your true faith in God and his Blessed Mother, and the sacrifice of your last coin, did not, by a miracle, transform the sand of, I admit it, this humble stream, into the very dust of Jerusalem? Just as, at the touch of the priest, the bread and wine of communion becomes the very body and blood of our dear Lord?’

  In spite of himself, Adam hesitated. Perhaps – could it be? – No! He wouldn’t fall for this man’s cheating again.

  ‘I’ll tell everyone,’ he said, but his voice came out wrong. It was trembling instead of gruff. ‘Lord Guy will have your tongue cut out. Or your ears cut off, anyway.’

  To his surprise, Jacques laughed and pulled off his cap.

  ‘Too late, my boy. They were cut off years ago.’

  Adam looked with horror at the mangled lumps of scarred gristle which were all that remained of the pedlar’s ears. He took a step backwards.

  ‘Give me back my penny,’ he growled.

  Jacques seemed to sense that there was no more to fear from Adam. Moving cautiously, he stood up, then bent again to brush the dust from his knees.

  He felt inside his jerkin, and tossed over a coin.

  ‘Fair’s fair. No harm done. Quits, ain’t we?’

  Adam caught the penny and turned awa
y.

  ‘Just one last word, my young friend.’ Jacques’s voice was no longer wheedling but silky with menace. ‘You tell anyone what you seen, you rat on me, and I’ll curse you. I can make a man blind. Blind. I can turn a man mad. You’re warned.’

  Adam was already scrambling back on to the bridge.

  ‘You think I believe that?’ he shouted back. ‘You won’t trick me again.’

  But he shuddered as he spoke, and knew that Jacques had seen his fear.

  I tried to help you, Ma, he whispered to himself. I won’t give up. I’ll get the real dust of Jerusalem for you somehow. Just wait, Ma. You won’t have to suffer in purgatory for long. I’ll walk all the way to Jerusalem myself, if I have to.

  The pedlar’s mocking laughter followed him as he hurried away.

  It was mid-morning by the time Dr Musa and Salim left Acre. Salim had stood, stiff with rage and misery, uselessly watching as the doctor fussed over his bottles and jars of medicine, wrapping his surgical instruments into cloths and packing everything into a heavy wooden chest.

  ‘That rogue of a servant!’ he was muttering. ‘The knave! To lie to me! I’ve been his honest master for ten years. His wife is ill, he says. In Haifa! When I know perfectly well that she died in Aleppo three years ago.’ He turned suddenly to Salim. ‘Well, boy? Did I deserve such treatment? Did I?’

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ Salim stammered.

  He couldn’t believe what was happening to him. This time yesterday he’d been idling away the morning in the customs house as usual, knowing that he’d eat his mother’s cooked supper that evening and sleep on his own mat at night. Today he was suddenly cast out into the world, the servant of a strange master, who wasn’t even a Muslim.

  If the Franks catch us they’ll probably murder us both straight away. They hate Jews even more than they hate us Muslims. Father will be sorry then, he told himself with sour satisfaction.

  At last, Dr Musa led Suweida, the mule, out of her stall, and told Salim to lift the chest on to her back and hold her still while he tied it on. The chest was heavy, and Salim had to strain to lift it. He was straightening his back when he heard a shout from behind.

  It’s Ali! he thought joyfully. He’s come to take me home!

  He turned excitedly, only to see another young man, a stranger, who was calling to a friend.

  The mule was startled by his sudden movement and trampled backwards. The heavy chest slipped in Salim’s arms, and he caught hold of it just in time before it crashed to the ground.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ shouted Dr Musa furiously. ‘Do you want to smash all the bottles?’

  He came up to Salim with his hands raised. Salim cowered, expecting a blow, but the doctor was only reaching for the chest. He took the weight of it from Salim’s straining arms and held it on the mule’s back.

  ‘Pick that up,’ he said impatiently, nodding at the leather strap lying on the ground. ‘And hurry up, before this mother of iniquity bolts.’

  There were streams of people pouring out through the high eastern gate of Acre. The lucky few had tied their possessions to the backs of mules or donkeys, but most were on foot, staggering under huge bundles tied up in cloths, the women with babies in their arms and children clinging to their skirts.

  Salim felt a shudder of finality as they walked out through the great stone portal of Acre into the flat coastal plain outside the city walls. He turned and looked back longingly into the narrow, familiar city streets behind.

  ‘Keep up!’ barked Dr Musa, who was leading Suweida by the bridle. ‘You can walk faster than that, can’t you?’

  Salim could walk well enough, but the doctor’s question had given him an idea.

  I’ll fake it, he thought. I’ll go slowly. And I’ll say I’ve got a headache. He’s a doctor. He’ll take me seriously. He’ll think I’m too weak and send me home.

  He put on the suffering expression that had always roused his mother’s sympathy and exaggerated his limp, putting one hand on his hip to increase the effect. Dr Musa burst out laughing.

  ‘A play-actor as well as a linguist! You don’t fool me, young man. A good thing your father warned me. I know you can walk perfectly well.’ Salim blushed with embarrassment, and resumed his usual gait. ‘You want me to punish you?’ the doctor went on. ‘You don’t know what I can do! You see this arm?’ He rolled back the sleeve of his gown and flexed his short muscular forearm. ‘Beware! My strength is mighty and my vengeance terrible! You’ll see! You’ll see!’

  Salim bit his lip and quickened his pace, till he was walking beside the doctor.

  ‘Your father, is he planning to leave Acre?’ Dr Musa said suddenly, after a short silence.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Salim said sulkily. The doctor’s forehead creased in a frown at his disrespectful tone. ‘I don’t think so, ya-hakim,’ Salim said hastily, trying to sound more polite. ‘He’s waiting for a shipment to arrive. He has a galley at sea. It’s due to dock any day now.’

  Dr Musa shook his head.

  ‘An obstinate man, Adil. Obstinate! He’ll take his chances, I suppose. He stuck it out under the Franks before.’

  ‘You don’t think – surely the infidels won’t take the city?’ Salim tried unsuccessfully to keep a tremor out of his voice. He’d been so angry with his parents for sending him away that he hadn’t given a thought to the danger they might be in.

  ‘You think I’m a soothsayer?’ the doctor snapped. He waved his arms, shaking Suweida’s bridle so that she tossed her head in alarm. He shot a sideways glance at Salim. ‘Turn around, you foolish boy. Look at the walls of Acre. Who is going to batter his way through those? Have faith. Say your prayers as your father taught you.’

  Although it was still quite early in the morning, the August sun was strong, and after a couple of hours of walking Salim was hot, thirsty and footsore. The straggle of refugees had thinned out now, some striking off on small paths towards the farms that ran along the low hills to the east of the city, while others had hurried on ahead. The doctor, leading Suweida, plodded on in silence, with the quiet rhythm of a man used to travelling long distances on foot.

  As he limped alongside, wild, angry plans chased through Salim’s mind. He’d wait till the doctor had stopped for a rest, as he surely would soon, and nodded off, like old men always did, then he’d slip away and hobble back home. He’d tell his parents that the doctor had changed his mind, or been captured by the Franks, or – or fallen prey to robbers. Even if Baba didn’t believe him, Mama would, and she’d stop his punishment from being too severe. As for the danger from the Franks, the doctor was right. You only had to look at the massive stone wall that encircled the city, with its formidable battlements, corner towers and the great ditch beneath, to know that the Franks would never be able to take Acre back. The Sultan Saladin would send an army, and crush the stupid Crusaders like ants under his feet. Baba had been right not to panic, and to stay at home.

  Salim was so busy imagining the delicious meal that Mama would cook for him when he made it back home – the chicken stewed in lemons, the rice studded with raisins and nuts, the skewers of roasted lamb – that he had stopped looking down at the rough, stone-strewn path. He gave a sudden shout of pain as his foot, unprotected by its open sandal, crunched against a sharp stone, tearing off half his big toenail. Ripples of agony shot up his leg, and he crouched down to look at the damage.

  The doctor, walking on steadily, looked back in annoyance.

  ‘I told you. No play-acting. You want a beating? You want a fight with me? Try me, my young friend. Try me. You’ll soon learn.’

  Salim, gulping back his tears, stood up and hobbled on, trying to catch up. Every step was excruciating now. To spare his right foot, he tried to rely more on his shorter left leg. Usually, he walked only on the ball of the left foot, which was unused to bearing his full weight. Within a few minutes, he felt cramps spreading up his calf, and had to rely once more on the right foot. For a half a mile he struggled on, bit
ing his lip to stop himself crying, while the doctor grumbled to himself.

  ‘How is it that I am so unfortunate! Forced to take to the road again, at my age, my servant a deserter, a mule that’s a daughter of Satan and a fool of a boy who thinks he can trick me. Me! Musa ben Aaron! Why, O Lord, have you brought these troubles down upon my head?’

  Just when Salim had decided that he could take no more pain, Suweida suddenly came to life and swerved off the road, almost dragging the doctor behind her. She broke into a trot as she neared a clump of trees. Under their dense, dark shade was a wall with an arched niche in it, and a set of steps below, leading down into the ground, showed that it was a well. Several women were sitting on the stone wall, their water jugs in their hands, but as they saw men approaching they reluctantly stood up, heaved their jars on to their shoulders and moved away.

  It was the smell of water that had excited Suweida. She broke into a clumsy canter as she neared the water trough, where a few centimetres of water lined the bottom.

  ‘Quick, boy! The chest! Untie the chest, before she takes it into her evil head to roll!’ shouted Dr Musa.

  His fingers trembling with exhaustion, Salim tried to obey, untying the tightly drawn knots on one side of Suweida, while Dr Musa worked on the other. He lowered the chest carefully to the ground. Dr Musa was already working the pulley to draw more water up to the trough, and Suweida was drinking steadily, her black tail flicking contentedly over her rump.

  ‘There. Enjoy yourself, you imp of wickedness!’ Dr Musa was saying fiercely, but Salim noticed with surprise that he was gently fondling the bristly mane that stood up all along her neck.

  Unable to stand a moment longer, Salim sank down on to the end of the stone trough and dropped his head into his hands, not caring if he was to suffer one of the fearsome punishments Dr Musa had promised. His head was genuinely aching now, from the heat and the thirst. He was bitterly regretting that he’d tried to fool the doctor earlier. There would be no use complaining from now on. He wouldn’t be believed.