‘Thanks for trying, Adam, but it won’t happen. Come over to the laundry tomorrow. I’ll sew your cross on to your tunic for you. Did you see who else went forwards? That sergeant, he’s a one. I saw him—’
A shuddering scream from behind made them both spin round. A man was standing with his head flung back and his mouth gaping open, jabbing a finger at the sky.
‘Look! A sign! A miracle! The cross of Christ!’
Everyone’s face was now turned upwards. The sun, setting behind bands of purple cloud, was shooting orange and scarlet rays across the sky.
‘I see it!’ people were shouting. ‘There! Yes, it’s the cross!’
Adam could see nothing more than a pattern of rays and clouds, changing with each passing moment, but all around him people were falling to their knees, staring up at the sky and praying.
I can’t see it, he thought, frantically searching the sky. I’m the only one who can’t see it!
He shut his eyes. The pattern of rays and clouds printed a cross-like shape inside his eyelids. He felt a surge of relief.
Is that a miracle? he wondered. He opened his eyes to tell Jennet, but she had gone, and when he shut them again, the pattern had faded away.
Another thought came to him, making him smile.
The real miracle, he told himself, is that a few hours ago I longed to go to Jerusalem, but thought I never would, and now I’m on my way.
In the weeks that followed the visit of the King’s messenger, the castle was in turmoil. The forge worked day and night, turning out spearheads and pikes and sharpening swords for the knights. The fletcher was red-eyed with the strain of making thousands of arrows. Fights constantly broke out between those who had been given leave to join the Crusade and those who were ordered to stay.
Lord Guy had taken no notice of his people’s response to the monk’s call to take up arms for Christ. Ignoring the pleas both of those who had volunteered, as well as those who had hung back, he simply picked the men he wanted, choosing the fittest, the best fighters and the most useful craftsmen, but leaving a skeleton staff fit enough to run Fortis in his absence.
‘Crusader? Lord Guy?’ Snig said, as he leaned against the kennel doorpost. ‘He wants to go out there as much as I wants to take a runnin’ jump off the top of the gatehouse. Taxes, that’s what it’s about. If he goes, he doesn’t pay. If he stays, he does.’
‘No. He’s going for Our Lady, like we all are,’ Adam said self-righteously, the warmth of zeal still burning bright within him.
Snig crossed himself quickly, fearful of having blasphemed.
‘Oh aye, of course. He wants to save himself from the eternal fires same as the next man. And Lord knows, he’s got more sins to forgive than most.’ He sniffed, the phlegm rattling in his leaking nose. ‘You’ll be on the high road to Paradise an’ all,’ he said, half enviously. ‘Still, why you wants to go roarin’ off to get yourself sliced in half by a murdering Saracen, or boiled in oil, or stuck full of arrows, when there’s a nice cosy place for you in these kennels, I’ll never know.’
Adam didn’t answer. He’d been as much surprised as elated when Lord Guy had sent for him and told him that he’d been picked as one of the elite band to join the Fortis party of Crusaders.
‘Six dogs I’m taking,’ the baron had said, running a cold eye over Adam. ‘Your responsibility. And you’ll report to the tiltyard every morning from now on for archery practice.’
The hours in the tiltyard had, in fact, been a welcome reprieve from the kennels. Master Tappe, who hadn’t wanted Adam in the first place, seemed enraged that he was now being taken away, and took it out on him at every opportunity. Adam had thought at first that Hugo de Pomfret, the sergeant-at-arms, would be an even worse taskmaster, but he’d come to respect the tough old soldier, whose bellow was worse than his bite. He’d started to enjoy the military training, learning to thrust with a spear, chop with a pike and shoot arrow after arrow with increasing speed.
He sometimes wondered how it would feel when his blade or his arrow tip was aimed at human flesh.
‘They’ll only be Saracens,’ he told himself sternly. ‘I’ll be killing them for the glory of God. And for Ma. The more the better, I suppose.’
But he preferred not to think of it if he could.
He was coming out of the kitchen one afternoon with a sack of bones for the dogs when he heard a girl’s voice, raised in laughing protest. He looked round. Directly outside the kitchen door was a yard surrounded by a wall. There was a small vegetable and herb plot here, and a jumble of sheds and outbuildings. A cart, upended with the shafts in the air, stood in front of one of these, and as Adam walked across the yard he heard the girl’s voice again, coming from the shed behind.
Jenny? he thought. It sounded like her.
He ran round behind the cart and stopped, appalled. Jennet had been pushed against a pile of bulging sacks and, pinning her down, with his back to Adam, was a tall young man. Before he’d had time to take in the richness of the boy’s green cloth tunic or the fineness of his red leather shoes, Adam was racing up to him, shouting, ‘Get off her! Stop!’
He was about to grab the boy by the shoulder, spin him round and punch him, when Jennet shrieked.
‘Adam! No! Don’t!’
The terror in her voice was so real that it stopped Adam in mid-air. The boy had spun round and Adam had only a moment to recognize Lord Robert when his eyes were caught and held by the slim, wicked knife the young nobleman had whipped out from his belt.
‘You dare to touch me? Who are you?’
His heart beating fast with fear, Adam dropped his head in a gesture of automatic humility and stepped back.
‘It’s Adam, my lord. He’s almost – like my little brother,’ Jennet was babbling. ‘He’s the new dog boy.’ She stood up and bobbed a curtsy. He ignored her.
‘You know what happens if you strike me?’ The needle-sharp point of his dagger was an inch from Adam’s nose. ‘Which would you prefer? A hot iron to brand your forehead? Or a hand cut off, perhaps? Though the choice would be mine, not yours.’
The dagger moved sideways, drawing a line from Adam’s nose across his cheek to his ear. Adam felt beads of blood trickle down towards his neck.
‘Your brother must watch himself, little laundry maid,’ the boy went on. ‘Make no mistake – I shall be watching him.’
He swaggered off across the kitchen yard.
‘You must be mad,’ Jennet was trembling. ‘Didn’t you know who he was? If you’d hit him, Adam . . .’
Adam’s fear was turning to anger. He took hold of Jennet’s arm and shook it.
‘What did he want? What did he do to you?’
He’d expected Jennet to look upset, but she stared back at him angrily.
‘He likes me,’ she said. ‘He’s always looking at me. He’s never got me alone before. He was going to kiss me, I think, when you came along.’
She sounded almost disappointed.
‘Jenny!’ Adam was shocked. ‘You mustn’t let him! He’ll ruin you!’
‘Oh Adam!’ She pulled a kerchief out from her sleeve and reached up to wipe the blood from his cheek. He flinched away from her. ‘You’re still a kid. You don’t understand. It’s not the village here. If Lord Robert likes me, I’ll go up in the world. I might even get to be a lady’s maid. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to wash clothes for the rest of my life and end up like old Margery. Look at my hands!’
He glanced down at the raw red fingers she had thrust in front of him.
‘Jenny! You mustn’t! It’s a mortal sin! Your pa . . .’ he began.
A pink flush of annoyance was rising in her plump cheeks.
‘You’ve no right, Adam. You of all people!’
He frowned, puzzled, but before he could ask her any more a furious screech came from the other side of the wall.
‘Jennet! Where is that dratted girl?’
Jennet made a face.
‘Margery. I’ve got to go
.’ She leaned forward again and this time managed to dab at the already drying blood. ‘It’s only a scratch. It won’t even leave a scar. You know what, Adam? You think too much. You’ve got to start enjoying life a bit more, like me.’
With a whisk of her skirt, she was gone.
On the few occasions when Adam saw Jennet after that she turned a huffy shoulder. But when the time came to leave, and the wagons were being loaded with every kind of provision, she sought him out.
‘Have you come to say goodbye, Jenny?’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘You won’t miss me at all, Adam,’ she told him, her eyes dancing.
He stared at her suspiciously.
‘You’re up to something!’
‘Who? Me?’ Her eyes were wide and innocent. Then she’d darted off to disappear with a flounce into the wash house.
The barley was inches high in the strip fields by the stream when the Crusaders of Fortis lined up in the castle bailey for a final inspection before the departure. Adam’s heart was pounding with excitement. The bailey, huge as it was, seemed to be packed with people. Ten knights, each one with his squire, groom and servants, had rallied to Lord Guy’s banner. They had donned their finest surcoats for the send-off and were riding one of their string of massive warhorses. The sun glinted on their chainmail and on their pointed helmets. The breeze was catching the banners that floated from their spears, each of which held the de Martel device: a sable hammer embroidered on a field of argent. Black on white. Strong. Unmistakable. Adam glowed at the sight of them. The black hammer was his sign now. He’d soon be fighting under that flag. He was a de Martel man, and proud of it.
People of all kinds were milling around the mounted knights, men-at-arms, grooms, servants, weeping women and excited children. The noise was affecting the dogs that Adam was holding on six long leashes.
‘Steady, Mirre. Quiet, Ostine,’ he growled at the two nervous, whippet-thin levriers, which Lord Guy had personally chosen to accompany him, hoping for some good days of hunting along the way. The four floppy-eared lymers, with their droopy jowls and mournful eyes, seemed less affected by the excitement.
‘You’ll be off then in a minute,’ a gruff voice said behind him, and Adam turned to face Master Tappe. The old man wasn’t quite smiling, but there was a warmer look in his eye than Adam had seen before. The six dogs crowded up to him, fawning at his feet.
‘Don’t forget. Rub the levriers down well after each run and check the lymers’ ears for ticks.’
Adam nodded without speaking. He knew there were things he should ask the kennel master before it was too late, but his mind had gone blank.
Then, to his amazement, Master Tappe reached inside his coat, pulled out a wriggling mass of tawny fur and tucked it inside Adam’s jerkin .
‘Runt of Powerful’s new litter,’ he said gruffly. ‘I was about to drown the little loser, but you might as well take ’im. If he dies, he dies. If he lives, a mastiff’s a useful dog in dangerous parts. Faithful. Vicious in a fight.’ He stopped and cleared his throat. ‘When you get to Jerusalem, pray for me. For the salvation of my soul. And if you don’t bring back these dogs in one piece, I’ll beat the nonsense out of you, once and for all. Our Lady bless you, and the dogs. Mirre in particular.’
And with a last pat on his favourite levrier’s head, he pushed his way through the crowd, back to the kennel.
A trumpet sounded, wild and strident. A cheer went up from the departing men. With a clatter of hooves the cavalcade began to pass out under the gate tower, led by Lord Guy on Vigor, his huge black warhorse. Lord Robert rode at his side.
Adam looked round anxiously, scanning the windows of the keep. From each one a woman was waving, her white coif fluttering against the grey stone walls.
Jenny! Where is she? Why didn’t she say goodbye? he thought.
The loaded wagons were creaking slowly into motion, their sides clanking with cooking pots and spare helmets. As one of them passed, Adam caught sight of a familiar russet skirt poking out from beneath the linen cover. As he watched, it twitched quickly out of sight.
Jenny, you devil! he thought, his face breaking open in a grin.
Knowing that she would be with him on the great adventure filled him with happiness. He squared his shoulders, lifted his head and, his eyes fixed on the floating banners in front, marched out through the castle gate along the road to Jerusalem.
Salim watched uncertainly as the little troop rode towards the entrance of the farmstead. There were no more than a dozen men. They wore brigandines – scarlet padded jackets studded with brass nails – over suits of chainmail, and plumes that nodded above their tall conical helmets. Each man carried an armoury of weapons: a bow and quivers of arrows, a sword and a lance, and a shield at his elbow. They rode with perfect grace, every soldier at one with his horse, as if the man and the animal were a single creature.
When they came close enough for Salim to see their pale, high cheek-boned faces he took in a deep breath.
‘Mamluks,’ he whispered, struck with awe. These, he knew, were the best, the toughest and most brilliant soldiers of Islam. Snatched as boys from the Turkish steppes of Southern Russia, lost forever to their families and trained with legendary ruthlessness, they served their sultan with unshakeable loyalty and followed Islam with absolute devotion.
The Mamluks had reined in their horses and were watching the Crusader army on the road below through narrowed eyes. There were far too few of them to mount a more serious attack on the long, heavily armoured column, but the Mamluks looked satisfied, pleased that at least they had prevented the Crusaders from quenching their thirst.
Salim could see that they were about to wheel round and gallop back up the hill without noticing him and the doctor, who were standing quietly just inside the farmstead’s courtyard. He was disappointed. He would have liked to get a closer look at their gear and their wonderful horses. But Suweida, made nervous by the nearness of so many strangers, was tossing her head. The Mamluk captain heard her harness jingle and turned round. His sharp black brows snapped together.
‘Here!’ he called out with an imperious beckon.
Dr Musa muttered under his breath and went forward unwillingly. Salim followed him and stood by the captain’s stirrup, trying to look unconcerned and to hide his admiration for the man’s gleaming gilded shield, the rippling chainmail that hung from his helmet and the scarlet tassels dangling from the horse’s chest and neck.
‘Who are you? What are you?’ the captain asked Dr Musa harshly. He spoke Arabic with a Turkish accent.
‘My name is Musa ben Aaron. I’m a doctor,’ Dr Musa said warily.
‘What are you doing, hiding here?’
‘I am on my way to Jerusalem. We left Acre this morning, fearing a siege. We were at the well up there, just now, and took refuge here when the Franks passed.’
‘And the boy?’
‘My apprentice.’
The captain was frowning, chewing his bearded lower lip as he stared at the doctor. Salim’s confidence waned. Something appeared to be wrong.
‘You’re a Christian,’ the captain said with sudden harshness. ‘You’re spying for the Crusaders.’
‘I’m a Jew,’ Dr Musa said calmly. ‘My boy here is Muslim.
His father is a respected merchant of Acre.’
‘Your name?’ the captain rapped out, looking at Salim for the first time.
‘Salim Ibn Adil,’ Salim said, clearing his throat and standing as tall as he could.
‘The chest,’ the captain said, pointing to Suweida. ‘What’s inside it?’
‘Medicines. Surgical instruments.’ Dr Musa moved back towards the mule. ‘If your honour wishes me to open it . . .’
‘No, no.’ The captain turned to the man at his side, and they spoke rapidly in a language that Salim didn’t understand. He was nervous now. There was no friendliness in the captain’s manner, and none of his men were smiling. He stepped a little closer to the doctor and glan
ced up at him.
Dignity wasn’t a word Salim would have used to describe Dr Musa, with his short round body, untidy clothes and unravelling turban, but there was an unruffled assurance in his manner that was at last impressing the captain.
‘Allow me to introduce myself, ya-hakim,’ he said, in a politer tone. ‘I’m Arslan Ibn Mehmet, captain of this Mamluk troop. You’ll have to come with us. Orders are to recruit all appropriate personnel. You’re needed with the army.’
Dr Musa’s brows rose with almost comical horror.
‘Impossible, captain. I’m expected in Jerusalem. I can’t possibly—’
‘By the Sultan’s orders, peace be upon him,’ the captain interrupted. ‘He is preparing an army to attack these Frankish infidels. He’ll hang their leaders from the walls of Acre and give their blood to the dogs to drink.’ He showed his teeth in a grin as he spoke.
Salim thrilled at his words, but Dr Musa’s calm had deserted him.
‘What have I done, O Lord, to deserve this?’ he wailed, raising his arms in a despairing gesture. ‘If only I’d left Acre last week, I would have been in Jerusalem by now, quietly tending my herb garden and my patients. Listen, captain, I’m a man of peace. A doctor, not an army surgeon. Running about with soldiers, pulling arrows out of flesh, stitching up sword wounds – at my age! Look at me! Have a little consideration, I beg you. Pretend we never met. Go on your way, and I’ll go on mine.’
‘If we hadn’t met, my friend, you would by now be stuck on the end of a Crusader sword,’ the captain answered drily.
‘But I have no horse!’ Dr Musa said desperately, ‘and my boy here is lame. We could never keep up with you.’
‘We’ll mount you,’ the captain said, clicking his fingers.
Salim, looking round, saw that two of the soldiers were trotting up, each with a riderless chestnut horse held on a leading rein. The doctor’s shoulders seemed to sag as he accepted the inevitable. A soldier dismounted and cupped his hands by the horse’s stirrup. Dr Musa put his foot into it and was thrown up on to the horse’s back, landing with a scramble in the saddle. Then Salim felt rough hands seize him, and found himself astride the second horse. He clutched nervously at the reins. He had ridden countless donkeys, mules and packhorses before, but this mare had all the fire and steel of her Arabian ancestry. His heart thumped as he tried to control her fretful prancing.
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