Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  From time to time, the city would mount a surprise raid. The gates on their rusted hinges would creak open and some of the defenders would rush out. They’d snatch a wagon-load of food, seize some horses and set fire to a few tents, then race back behind the shelter of their walls. Whenever this happened, Salim would remember his family in a rush of anxiety and live for days on tenterhooks, not knowing whether Ali was among the ones who hadn’t run back in time, imagining his body lying with the others in the ditch below the city walls, unburied and foul with swarms of flies. But it was impossible to live in an agony of worry for too long, and soon enough the pain of not knowing would turn once more into a dull, permanent ache.

  From the beginning, Salim had taken to spying with enthusiasm. He’d stuck to his old routine in the first few months, moving around in the dead ground between the two armies, pretending to collect leaves and seed heads for the doctor. By the end of the first winter there had been little enough to find. Foraging parties of Franks, desperate to feed their horses, had ventured beyond their earthworks and, long since, stripped the hillside bare of every green thing, as well as every stick to light their fires. The bushes had even gone from the old spying place above the outcrop, where Salim had first hidden to watch the Franks. It was still possible, by crawling up to it on his hands and knees, to approach without being seen from below, but he rarely bothered now.

  In a way, the armies had become used to each other. Saracens from one side and Crusaders from the other would even meet in the ground between them, leaning on their lances as they tried to converse without a common language. There was an odd kind of peace. The catapults were still silent, their long arms lying idly in the dust.

  Salim, in his old tunic, bleached to a faded grey by the sun, would make himself almost invisible as he squatted on a stone, watching with amazement as a group of Frankish knights, their faces shaved in the strange European manner, would beckon to a group of Saracens, greet them politely and usher them right into their camp, into their very tents, offering them food, and showing off the finer points of their warhorses, some of which, as big as camels, were beyond anything even the Mamluks had ever seen.

  Salim would shake his head with disgust. What was the point of him being a spy when the soldiers of Saladin could saunter into the Christian camp at their ease, look around them and stroll back home to report on every detail?

  Once or twice, he’d dared to attach himself, like a shadow, to a pair of Syrian knights, who seemed to be friendly with a group of Franks from Tyre. Slipping quietly behind them, he had overheard their conversation as they met on the open ground between the camps. These Franks spoke some Arabic. They were the old type of Crusader, ones who had been born in Palestine and lived in the country all their lives. They had even, thought Salim, become quite civilized, with their clean clothes and proper manners, unlike the loud, rough newcomers fresh from Europe, with their wild manes of hair and their roaring fighting drunkenness.

  Increasingly, though, Salim’s expeditions outside the camp of Saladin had become rare. There was nothing new that he could report about the Crusaders, and there was scarcely a plant remaining to be harvested. In any case, Dr Musa seldom let him run free. Solomon, a pharmacist from Damascus, had arrived in Saladin’s camp. He had taken up residence in a tent next to the doctor’s, and the two men worked together. Salim was constantly at their beck and call.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ the doctor would say every time Salim tried to slip away. ‘Salves to be prepared! Seeds to grind!’

  Now that it was spring again and the days were getting warmer, the stench from the Crusader camp was becoming even more unbearable. Saladin, suffering constantly from fevers and stomach pains, and afraid that the foul miasma was making him ill, called Dr Musa frequently to his tent. Often Salim went with him, but sometimes he had permission to slip away. When he was feeling like company he would seek out Ismail who, completely recovered now from his lance wound, would sometimes let him mount Kestan, and the two of them would ride off into the hills a little way, their horses restless from the long inactive days in the camp.

  At other times, though, an awful homesickness would overcome Salim. This happened one March evening, when the smell of a bubbling stew suddenly brought to mind the courtyard of his Acre home so vividly that he could almost hear his mother’s voice calling him to supper. The doctor was with Saladin. Salim slipped out of the camp and went to sit on a favourite rock from which he could look out across the plain, teeming with tents and men and horses, towards the walls of Acre.

  The spell of homesickness turned, as it often did, into anger.

  They sent me away, he thought. Baba sold me, like a piece of cloth. He never loved me. Why didn’t Mama stop him? She doesn’t really care about me either. It’s because of my leg. They only ever wanted Ali and Zahra. They couldn’t wait to get rid of me.

  Self-pity threatened to overwhelm him. He felt shameful tears run down his cheeks and wiped them savagely away. Then, from one moment to the next, his mood changed. He saw his father’s anxious frown, and remembered how he’d wanted Salim to be sent to safety. He remembered how Mama had packed the honey cakes for him, and how Ali had been almost affectionate when they’d said goodbye.

  ‘If only I knew you were all right!’ he said out loud.

  Dreadful scenes tumbled one after another into his mind: Zahra, pale and weak with hunger, Mama hunting around for something to eat in empty storage jars, Baba’s fingers fretting and fretting over his worry beads.

  And Ali! he thought. He might be dead by now. I’d kill every one of these mad foreigners if I could. I hate them. I hate them! Why did they have to come here? Why don’t they go back home and leave us alone?

  In a feeble gesture of defiance, he picked up a pebble and threw it, with as much force as he could, towards the Crusader camp. It landed out of sight, further down the hill. There was a yelping sound and the scuffle of paws on stones, and suddenly, as if from nowhere, a huge dog appeared. It raced up to him, the low growl in its throat turning to deep, hostile barks. Salim jumped to his feet and put out his hands to protect himself. The dog’s lips were drawn back from its teeth in a hideous snarl, and it seemed to be about to launch itself at him, to tear out his throat, when a voice from below yelled in the language of the Franks, ‘No! Faithful! Down! Come here!’

  The mastiff dropped down obediently on to its haunches. Salim backed way. This seemed to infuriate the dog all over again and it jumped up, but before it could attack, the boy had run up, grabbed it by the collar and wrenched it backwards.

  Whining, the dog subsided at the boy’s feet.

  ‘He wouldn’t have hurt you,’ the boy began. ‘He’s—’

  Then he took in Salim’s appearance, his hooded cloak and the skullcap on his head. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Infidel!’ he said, crossing himself.

  ‘Infidel you!’ Salim shot back, the half-remembered language of the Franks coming back to him. ‘Barbarian! Get out of my land! Go back to Farang!’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ the boy clearly didn’t understand. ‘Go where?’

  His hold on the dog’s collar was loosening. Salim, afraid he would release it, bent down swiftly, picked up another stone and flung it at the boy. It missed. He backed hastily away up the hill.

  ‘Go home! Go you home to Frankish land!’ he yelled, and without looking round hobbled back to the camp as fast as he could.

  The endless months of siege had passed slowly for Adam too. He had also grown. His face had lost the roundness of childhood and had slimmed and firmed to become handsome under its thick thatch of dark hair. He was unaware of this, since he had no means of looking at himself. He took pride, though, in the increasing strength of his arms and back, and his skill in handling a sword and mace, honed by constant practice with the men-at-arms.

  No one had thought the siege would last so long. After the first winter had passed, everyone had expected that King Richard of England, Philip of France
and the Emperor of Germany would sweep into the harbour of Acre at the head of their mighty fleets, leap on to their horses and, riding at the head of the glorious band of faithful Crusaders, sweep aside the God-hating Saracens with the sheer force of their righteousness. Then, after a swift battle, they would enter Jerusalem to the sound of trumpets.

  Instead, the different factions of the camp quarrelled and grumbled among themselves. Knights from all over Europe tested their skills against each other, keeping more or less courteously within the rules of competition. The countless priests and bishops conferred together in the Latin of a dozen different national accents, while the high-born nobles and princes eyed each other jealously, each one hoping to outdo the other in rushing first to glory on the day of victory, when Jerusalem would be their prize.

  Adam had frequently hugged to himself the thought of that tremendous day. Once there, in the holy city, he was sure that the knowledge of divine salvation would lift his soul to bliss. He had certainly never expected to be trapped in a crowded camp, stuck in one place month after month, spending long days digging the ditches and embankments, and even longer ones in weary idleness, while the food grew more and more scarce, people sickened and died, and the rising tide of filth threatened to overwhelm everyone.

  The English contingent had made their camp with the few other English troops, who had come out in advance of King Richard. It was to the east of the city walls, in a spot nearest the low rim of hills beyond, which Saladin commanded.

  Adam had given up all hope, months ago, that the lost ship which Jennet had been on would arrive. During the whole of the first summer he had spent hours looking out to sea, hoping against hope to see a sail with the familiar scarlet cross emblazoned on it. Once the storms of November had closed in, however, all sea traffic had stopped, and he had had to accept that Jennet had gone.

  As the second autumn approached, news had come that King Richard had been detained in Sicily and would remain there for the winter until it was safe to put to sea again.

  ‘If I’d known he’d take this long I’d have stayed at home another year,’ Adam heard Lord Guy grumble. ‘I may be saving my soul, but I’m certainly losing everything else! I’ll have spent my last groat before this is over, just on bread and beer for my lazy vassals.’

  Father Jerome, not wishing to rebuke the baron in front of his inferiors, had nevertheless allowed a frown to cross his austere face.

  ‘Those that wait upon the Lord, they shall inherit the earth,’ he said, speaking in Latin which no one else could understand. Then, turning to address everyone close by, he had informed them that a mass was about to be said in the huge tented church in the centre of the camp, and that constant devotion to Christ and his Mother was the only way to ensure victory over the evil forces of Islam.

  In spite of the fleas that infested the straw-strewn ground inside the church tent, Adam attended the masses as often as he could. He squeezed his eyes shut as he prayed, trying to feel again the passionate conviction of the night when he’d taken the cross. He begged the Virgin to save his mother from purgatory, and pleaded with all the saints whose names he knew to rescue Jennet from hell.

  Adam was used to hunger, but as the second winter came to an end, even he was desperate for food, and the job of keeping the two dogs alive was becoming harder and harder. There was still just enough money in Lord Guy’s coffers to save his people from absolute starvation, but with a single egg going in the camp for a silver penny, even the baron’s fortune was fast running out. Already half the precious horses had been slaughtered and eaten. The prized warhorses had been saved, but the other animals had all gone, their flesh devoured and their bones chewed and chewed again.

  Adam knew he was luckier than many. Sir Ivo made sure he had enough to keep body and soul together. Some of the Crusader army, who had answered the call to take up the cross without the protection of a lord, were gaunt with hunger and scarcely had enough strength to wield a sword or a bow. They had come from every part of Europe, from German, Italian and Spanish lands, from France and the Low Countries. They stayed together, each in their own small patches of ground, begging from their neighbours, wondering why they’d come, each of them longing for the spring, and the hope that reinforcements from Europe would arrive and the final push to take Acre would begin.

  Every time he went to mass, Adam thanked the Virgin for Sir Ivo. The knight had been as good as his word and, with Lord Guy’s agreement, had taken Adam on as his groom. It hadn’t been hard to look after Sir Ivo’s four horses – Grimbald, his massive charger, the two riding palfreys and the slower, older packhorse. He’d been sorry when first the packhorse and then the palfreys had had to be slaughtered for their meat, and he watched anxiously as the fodder available to Grimbald diminished day by day, and the horse grew thinner.

  Disaster struck Sir Ivo’s little household shortly after the second Christmas. A severe bout of dysentery had laid low his squire. The knight had sat up with him for three nights, but on the fourth day the squire had died. Sir Ivo had placed him in his grave with his own hands and hadn’t been ashamed to cry like a child.

  ‘His father trusted him to me,’ Adam heard him say, as he stared down at the low mound of earth. ‘How shall I face him when we go home?’

  Adam hadn’t known what to say. The squire had been a moody, arrogant boy, who had taken pleasure in ordering Adam about. He couldn’t pretend to mourn him. At last he said awkwardly, ‘His soul has gone to Paradise, sir. He died on Crusade.’

  ‘Yes, but that won’t comfort his mother,’ Sir Ivo sighed. ‘And it’s not much comfort to me. His father’s my oldest friend.’

  He walked on with Adam at his heels.

  ‘What will you do for a squire now, sir?’ Adam dared ask a little later, as he took the squire’s soiled blanket out of Sir Ivo’s tent, ready to take it to the river for a wash.

  ‘Sir Baldwin’s boy will help me out,’ Sir Ivo had said indifferently. Then a smile had lit his face. ‘But there’s you! Why, yes. Adam the dog boy becomes Adam the groom, and now it seems he’ll have to be Adam the page. You’re going up in the world. It’s an unlikely promotion for a serf, I grant you, and temporary of course, but these are exceptional times. You’ll have to learn new tricks, dog boy. You’ll have to master the art of dressing me in my coat of mail, and keeping it clean and in good repair.’

  ‘Yes, sir, yes!’ stammered Adam.

  ‘You can start,’ Sir Ivo said drily, ‘by washing yourself and your clothes. I’m going to have to teach you manners, young Adam. It’s not exactly easy, in this infernal dung heap, to survive with any decency at all, but standards must be maintained. You will, for example, kindly stop scratching yourself in that distressingly primitive manner.’

  Adam, quick to learn, had not taken long to master his new duties. Sir Ivo, strict but fair, had been patient with his fumblings. When he had demonstrated the intricate business of how he had to be dressed in the complicated armour of war – the padded under-jacket, the iron-ringed hauberk that covered his body down to his knees, the chainmail leggings and mittens, the bright white linen surcoat, secured by a long leather belt, and lastly the massive box-like helmet with its narrow eye slits – Adam had concentrated with frowning intensity. He hadn’t needed to be shown again.

  The other pages had been scandalized at first by the sight of an illiterate serf doing the noble work of a squire. They’d taken it out on Adam, poking at him with the sharp ends of their swords, mocking the way he spoke and sending him on useless errands. Sir Ivo had let well alone, until Adam’s leg was almost broken when a group of squires had kicked and beaten him. He’d knocked a few heads together and reminded them of the sacredness of their mission. As he was the most respected of Lord Guy’s knights, most of them had settled down to a grudging acceptance of Adam’s new role and one had even offered tips on the tricky business of attaching spurs to a mailed foot.

  Adam, discovering for the first time that it was impolite to pick his nose, belch or s
pit on the ground, covertly watched the squires. He noticed how straight they stood, and how they never hung their heads obsequiously in the presence of the knights. Without copying their swagger, he unconsciously began to move through the camp with more assurance, holding his own head high.

  It was a strain, though, to live up to the demands that Sir Ivo made on him, and whenever he could, Adam slipped away. He scrambled over the earthwork defences and roamed about on the hillside above the camp, going as near to the Saracen camp as he dared, looking for anything edible. He’d been lucky enough once to snare a couple of birds, but after he’d shared them with the dogs there was no more than a mouthful or two left for him.

  Soon after that, at least one responsibility fell from his shoulders. Ostine disappeared. Adam hunted for her everywhere but she didn’t answer his call. He guessed that she’d been caught, killed and eaten by the desperate hangers-on who were dying of hunger and disease on the fringes of the camp. After that, he feared for Faithful, but it was clear that the mastiff still had the strength and ferocity to keep any hunters at bay. It was a long time since Adam had been able to feed him, and he often wondered how Faithful was managing to remain so strong and healthy. He let him loose to roam at night, and he suspected that the dog trotted up to the Saracen camp and foraged for scraps. Often, Adam wished he could do the same.

  He’d been surprised to run into the Saracen boy. He’d never been so close to one of the enemy before. He’d half expected other infidels to leap out at him from behind the nearby boulders and hack him to pieces with their swords. Even worse, he’d wondered for one petrifying moment if the boy would summon up a demon, something of hellish wickedness, who would try to snatch his soul away.

  Then he’d seen the fright in the boy’s eyes.

  He was scared of Faithful, he thought afterwards. There was something wrong about his leg too. Cursed at birth, maybe.