He became aware of the doctor’s two sandalled feet on the ground just in front of him, and put his hands up to cover his head, afraid of a blow. But to his surprise, the doctor took his sore foot in one gentle hand, and bent to examine it.
‘When did you do this?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Half a mile back. I hit it on a stone.’
‘Hm. Well, well. Half a mile, you say. How did you walk?’
‘I tried to use my left leg, but I had the cramps in it so I had to walk on the sore foot anyway.’
‘Ah. I see. Some fortitude. Yes, very good.’
Dr Musa straightened up and went to open the chest. He rummaged for a moment, selected a few items, filled a little bowl of water from the trough and sat down on the low wall beside Salim.
‘First lesson in doctoring,’ he barked, pushing back his turban, which was threatening to slip down over his eyes. ‘Wash. Remove dead matter and foreign bodies. Salve. Bandage.’
Salim watched gratefully, trying not to wince, as the doctor washed the toe, cut off the hanging nail, put ointment on it and tied a bandage deftly in place. When the job was done the toe felt much less raw. He wriggled it experimentally.
‘Thank you, ustadh.’ He didn’t realize until he’d spoken that he’d called the doctor ‘master’ for the first time.
Dr Musa had now seized his left leg and was probing the calf with his strong fingers, working away at the cramped muscles, easing and releasing them. He finished with a painless cuff across Salim’s shoulders.
‘The saddlebags!’ he growled. ‘Fetch them down.’
The two striped saddlebags were quite easy to lift off. Salim slung them over his shoulder and carried them across to the doctor, who was standing at the edge of the clump of trees, looking back along the dazzlingly bright ribbon of road towards the creamy white walls of Acre, now far in the distance.
‘Open them, boy. Where are your wits?’ he said, without turning round. ‘Spread out the mat. Unwrap the food. There are beakers. Fill them from the well.’
Salim did as he was told. He could walk without too much discomfort now.
He shook out the thin mat that was rolled up and tied above the saddlebag, and laid it on the ground. The action reminded him that it must surely be past the time for the midday prayer.
Two beakers had fallen out of the mat. He picked them up, went back to the well and felt his way down the steps into the blissfully cool, dim stone interior, where a pool of limpid water smelt delicious. Quickly he filled and drank to the bottom of one beaker, then filled them both again and carried them carefully back to the doctor, who had already unwrapped a bundle of food and was laying out dates, olives and flat bread on the mat.
‘Excuse me for my prayers, ustadh,’ Salim said, fearing another outburst. He wasn’t used to Jews and didn’t know how the doctor would react. The Franks, he remembered well, used to laugh at the Muslims for praying in the way they did.
Cross yourself when you pray to God, you ignorant savage, the Frankish boys had shouted at Salim. Where’s your respect?
But Dr Musa simply waved Salim towards the trough to perform his ritual washing. He himself had covered his head with a shawl, strapped little boxes to his forehead and arm and seemed to be saying a prayer of his own.
Salim looked round for a good place to pray. He had no prayer rug, so he carefully cleared a spear’s-length patch of ground. Then he squinted up at the sun to check which way he should face and, hoping that he had judged the position of Mecca correctly, he knelt down and murmured the familiar words.
The dates, when he finally sat down to eat, were sweet and delicious, and the bread, though not quite like his mother’s, was good. The thought of Khadijah’s bread reminded him of the honey cakes, still wrapped in his bundle inside the other saddlebag. He’d been holding them in his mind as a talisman, a last link with home. He’d been hoping to keep them to himself, and eat them slowly, one by one, when he was out of sight of the doctor. But he remembered how the doctor had caught him out for play-acting. It would be better to share them than to risk any more misunderstandings.
‘My mother gave me some honey cakes, ustadh,’ he said unwillingly.
‘Very good, very good. Eat them yourself,’ said the doctor. He had scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over the hem of his long robe, and was staring out along the road to the north.
‘Pack up, quick! Fetch Suweida!’ he cried.
Salim had crammed a cake into his mouth. He tried to speak but choked on the crumbs.
‘Devil take your cakes!’ the doctor exploded. ‘Look, over there!’
Salim spun round. A cloud of thick white dust was rolling down the road towards Acre. Inside it he could make out the glint of sunlight on metal helmets, while above it floated banners attached to lances, which were held in the fists of mail-clad men, riding enormous horses.
‘The Frankish army!’ he whispered, his belly turning to water.
He stood frozen with fright, but a prod from Dr Musa sent him scurrying across to where Suweida was nibbling peacefully at a patch of grass.
Dr Musa had already swept everything up from the picnic into the saddlebag, and was running at a lumbering trot towards the precious medicine chest. Salim snatched up the bags and flung them across Suweida’s back. Between them, he and the doctor lifted the heavy chest and tied it on.
‘We could hide in the well,’ Salim whispered, though the Frankish army was still much too far away to hear.
‘Where are your wits, child? They’ll stop here to drink and water their horses. This place will be buzzing like a beehive as soon as the horses smell the water. Quick. Follow me.’
Dr Musa was already out of the trees and jogging towards a nearby farmstead on the side of the hill above the road. It was surrounded by mud-covered stone walls, along the top of which grew a ragged mass of prickly pear cactus. One end of his badly tied turban had come undone, and as it unravelled the long piece of cloth sailed out behind him like a streamer. Suweida, who seemed to sense her master’s anxiety, was trotting briskly beside him, and Salim had to work hard to keep up. A few minutes later, all three were hidden from the road and the well by the farmstead’s outer wall.
They found themselves in an empty courtyard. Two or three low stone rooms stood at the far end, but there were no signs of the farm’s owners. No vegetables were laid out to dry in the sun. No chickens scratched in the dust. No bundles of cotton lay about, waiting to be spun.
The doctor was chewing at his lower lip, looking round anxiously.
‘Not good,’ he said at last. ‘We’re not safe here. Armies are all thieves. They’ll come up here when they’ve drunk the water, looking for food. The farmer knew what was coming. He had the sense to flee. Come on, boy. We’ll go further up the hill.’
He took hold of Suweida’s bridle and was about to lead her out of the courtyard when shouts, the clash of metal and the neighing of horses sounded, horribly close.
‘Too late!’ muttered the doctor.
Salim was working at a loose stone in the wall with his fingers, poking out some mud. He made a little hole, looked through it and gasped with fright. The doctor was right. The Franks were flocking off the road towards the well. They were only a few hundred metres below the farmstead.
The foot soldiers, in their heavy padded jerkins, were almost fighting to get at the water, tearing off their round, basin-like metal helmets and plunging them into the trough, pouring water over their sweating faces, scarlet with heat, then drinking deeply with their heads thrown back. Their commanders were beating at them with the flats of their swords.
‘Rabble! Scum!’ they were shouting. ‘Get away from the water! Are you not ashamed to drink before your betters?’
The doctor was at Salim’s shoulder, looking through a hole of his own.
‘Can you understand them? What are they saying?’ he asked.
‘They’re insulting each other,’ he said. ‘They say the lords must drink first.’
&nb
sp; A group of knights on huge horses had trotted up now. They were lifting the massive helmets from their heads.
‘A bigger force than I had thought. Not good, not good,’ the doctor was muttering.
But Salim had seen something that was turning his knees to jelly. Two foot soldiers had spotted the little farm. They were pointing it out to the others. Five or six of them had already broken out from under the trees and were running up the little hill towards the hiding place.
‘They’re coming! They’re coming up here! We haven’t even got a sword or – or a bow,’ he said, breathless with panic. ‘They’ll kill us!’
He bent down to pick up a couple of stones. He’d throw them if he got the chance.
‘Put them down!’ Dr Musa said sharply. ‘What use are stones against chainmail? We have much better weapons.’
‘What? Where?’ Salim was searching the doctor wildly with his eyes, expecting him to pull out a dagger or a scimitar from inside his robe.
‘Words, Salim! Words! And knowledge. The greatest weapons of all. Now come here and stand beside me. You will speak to them in Frankish. I will tell you what to say.’
The first of the Frankish soldiers was no more than a stone’s throw away now. Through the hole in the wall, Salim could see his coarse, matted blond hair, the stubble on his chin and the sunburned skin peeling from his nose. Without knowing what he was doing, he put his hand into the doctor’s and squeezed it tight, then stood, expecting to be killed, his heart thudding inside his chest like the beat of a war drum.
The next thing he heard was a whoosh, as faint as a sigh, from overhead, then another, and another. He looked through the hole again. The Frank had staggered backwards, holding his hand to his neck, from which a long feathered arrow was sticking. The second Frank faltered too, swayed for a moment, then fell on his face, an arrow embedded in the base of his skull. The other men were already scrambling with desperate haste back towards the well and the road.
‘Ambush! Ambush!’ they were screaming.
Within a few minutes, the chaos at the well was over. The last of the Franks had run quickly back to the road and their long orderly columns had re-formed. The knights, roasting in their chainmail and box-like metal helmets, rode in the centre. On each side of them marched lines of leather-clad foot soldiers, their brightly painted shields in their left hands held up to protect their heads, their right hands clutching pikes and swords, their backs straining under their heavy packs.
Salim and Dr Musa were no longer looking at them. They had turned to watch a troop of cavalry who were riding down to them on stocky, agile little horses from a covering of trees on the hillside above.
It was late afternoon when Adam’s reluctant feet finally took him through the gate tower of Castle Fortis. In its shadow, two men-at-arms were squatting in the dust, throwing dice.
‘Hey, you!’ one of them called out. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Lord Guy told me – I’m the new dog boy,’ Adam said, frowning to hide his nervousness.
‘Stables and kennels over there.’ The second man jerked his head in the direction of a row of thatched lean-to sheds, built against the inside of the wall.
Adam set off across the rough patch of ground between the gatehouse and the stables. He had never been more than a little way into the bailey before, and had often wondered what it would be like inside the massive walls.
His ears, used to the quietness of the isolated croft, were assaulted by strange jarring noises. The clash of a hammer on metal came from a small forge. Someone was sawing timber in a shed nearby. Wagon wheels rumbled on stones as a load of barrels came in through the gatehouse. People were calling out to each other. Dogs were barking. A rooster on a dung heap was crowing at the top of his voice.
A shriek rang out, and from a small shack near the wall ran a girl. Dark brown curls were escaping from beneath her white cap, and she was holding up the front of her full russet-coloured skirt to prevent herself from tripping. A boot flung after her narrowly missed her, and she veered to the right, almost crashing into Adam. She pulled herself up and grabbed his arms.
‘Adam!’ She’d been scowling but her face had softened. ‘I only just heard this morning about your ma. I’m really sorry. I wanted to come to the burying but that old cat Margery wouldn’t let me. Your ma was always lovely to me. I knew she was sick, but still . . . Are you all right, Adam? You must be feeling so bad. What are you doing here?’
She stopped talking at last and let go of him. Adam had been staring at her, hardly hearing a word she was saying. He could barely recognize Jennet Bate, the girl he’d grown up with, in this bold young woman. Although the Jennet he’d known had been cheerful and noisy with the people she knew, she’d been quiet and shy when anyone else was around, turning scarlet if a stranger came near and hardly daring to lift her eyes. This Jennet was forceful and confident, her cheeks flushed with excitement rather than embarrassment, and her brown eyes alive with energy in spite of the sympathy now clouding them. She’d been a girl when he’d seen her last, a year ago. Now she was a woman.
Adam was oddly disappointed. The Jennet he’d relied on had gone, and someone else had taken her place. The knot of misery in his stomach tightened, but he tried to smile at her.
‘Lord Guy came past when we – when we were carrying her to the churchyard. He told me to come up here. Said he needed a dog boy.’
‘That’s great, Adam! Master Tappe, he’s the kennel master. He’s so old and doddery he lets the dogs run everywhere. Paw marks all over my lady’s shifts. Mean old sour-face he is too. Not as bad as Margery, my mistress. She’s the laundress. I’m her helper, but Lord Guy’s son, Master Robert, he stopped to chat to me the other day, just as if I’d been a lady. Said if I’m good I might go on to be Lady Ysabel’s maid one of these days. Can’t be too soon for me. That Margery, she loses her temper with every little thing. Threw her boots at me just now. She misses, though, every time.’
‘Aren’t you scared?’ Adam said, impressed.
Jennet shrugged.
‘Me? Of old Margery? Course not. It’d take more than her. But look at me, going on. Tell me about your ma. What was it like? Did she suffer? I loved her too, I really did. I cried like a waterspout when I heard.’
‘It was awful,’ began Adam. ‘She—’
‘Jennet, you little slut! Where are you? Jennet!’ came an enraged shout from the laundry shed.
‘I’d better go,’ Jennet said hastily.
She leaned over and kissed Adam’s cheek.
‘That’s for losing your ma, Adam, and because I’m so glad you’re here. Tell me all about it soon, eh?’
She turned.
‘Jennet!’
‘What?’
He didn’t know what to say, only that he didn’t want to be left alone.
‘When am I going to see you?’
‘Everyone eats together in the great hall. I’ll see you there.’
He watched till her bright skirt had whisked itself inside the laundry shed, then walked reluctantly over to the stables.
No one was there, and only one horse was looking out of the row of stalls. Adam went up to look at it. Its long nose was velvety smooth, and it eyed Adam nervously, laying back its ears and trampling backwards in the stall.
A deep bark just behind him made Adam whirl round, and he stepped back hastily as a huge mastiff leaped at him, threatening to knock him to the ground. It halted in mid-air as the wizened old man holding its lead yanked it backwards. Half choked, the great dog dropped obediently to the ground.
The old man laughed unpleasantly.
‘Thought you was a goner, didn’t you?’ he wheezed. ‘So you would have been, without I’d pulled him off. Can tear a man’s throat out if he’s a mind. Now who are you, and what d’you think you’re doing, so close to my lady Ysabel’s palfrey?’
Adam, keeping a wary eye on the dog, moved hastily away from the horse.
‘Lord Guy said I was to come. Said
he needed a dog boy.’
The man stared at him, the eyes in his gnarled face bright and unwinking.
‘Said that, did he? Now what would I be needing with a dog boy?’
Adam looked at his feet, not knowing what to say.
‘Have you got a name, boy?’
‘Yes. It’s Adam, son of Gervase.’
‘Gervase, eh? I remember him, worse luck. A wastrel if ever there was one. What happened to your ma? Handsome piece, Strangia.’
‘She died. Yesterday.’
Adam felt a prickling in his eyes, and blinked fiercely.
The kennel master tutted but without much sympathy. He bent down to remove the leash from the mastiff’s collar. The dog advanced on Adam, his teeth bared.
Adam had only ever known the mangy mongrels in the village before. They’d scuffled over scraps on the midden and barked half the night at prowling foxes, but they’d been quite easy to control, with a sharp word or the wave of a stick. This ferocious animal was of a very different kind.
He wanted to back away but he knew he must stand his ground. He squared his shoulders and frowned at the dog. The mastiff dropped his head, then walked up to Adam on stiff legs and sniffed at his cracked shoes. Adam felt the toes curl inside them, but he forced himself to speak, though he hardly knew what he was saying.
‘Good boy. Good dog.’
The dog was walking round behind him. The soft growl in its throat had gone. It lost interest in Adam all of a sudden, went across to the door of the kennel, flopped down and yawned.
‘His name’s Powerful,’ Tappe said, sounding almost disappointed. ‘Powerful he is too. Keepin’ him out of fights, that’ll show what you’re made of – if there’s more to you than there looks.’ He held out the leash. ‘Go and fix this back on his collar.’
Adam took the leash and advanced on Powerful, trying to look confident. He bent down and touched the mastiff’s studded collar. Powerful growled and snapped at his hand, but without conviction. Fumbling, Adam tied the leash to the collar.
Powerful stood up, his legs stiff, his ears pricked, and gave a deep throated bark. A chorus of baying came from kennels behind Adam, and higher, answering barks from two sleek greyhounds which were bounding towards the kennels from the gatehouse, followed by a jostling, joyful pack of hounds and spaniels, as well as a skinny young man.
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