Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  Sir Ivo clapped him joyfully on the shoulder.

  ‘Wonderful news! Christ be thanked! I had begun to believe that we were destined for a most inglorious and uncomfortable martyrdom.’

  The new arrivals from the recovered ship were streaming into the Fortis camp by now. Lord Guy stood with his hands on his hips, his chest thrust out, nodding with pleasure and satisfaction as one by one his long-lost vassals came and bowed in front of him. Their adventures, as they were retold by one person to another, became more and more fantastic, including as they did frightful storms, the sighting of great sea monsters, hostile islanders, appearances of saints and the blessing of the Virgin in the form of a friendly coastal village, who had taken them in and supplied them with food and water. Adam gave up trying to make head or tail of it all.

  He was kept busy all day helping to unload the wagons, store the precious supplies of food and make sure that Grimbald had his fair share of the animal fodder the new arrivals had brought with them.

  ‘You can count yourself lucky, old boy,’ he said cheerfully, nudging aside Vigor, Lord Guy’s horse, as he rubbed Grimbald down with a wisp of straw. ‘Tomorrow you’d have been everyone’s dinner, same as all the rest.’

  There was a festive atmosphere throughout the whole Crusader camp that night. The new supplies had given everyone hope. It was clear now that the sea was navigable again after the storms of winter, and more ships would soon be arriving. The business of war would start up again in deadly earnest. The catapults were already back in action, and the dull crump of their missiles hitting the city walls frequently echoed out across the camp.

  In the Fortis section, everyone was jubilant.

  ‘Christ and his saints haven’t deserted us after all,’ Adam heard someone say. ‘I was having my doubts, if I’m honest with you.’

  ‘Aye, we’ll be all right now,’ his companion answered. ‘The King’s grace will be here any day soon. Damned infidels. The wrath of God, that’s what they’ll feel.’

  Ale and wine, unloaded from the recovered ship, were drunk in great quantities that evening. Lord Guy, uncommonly genial, walked about among his Crusaders, his face scarlet with alcohol and pleasure. Adam, having been excused by Sir Ivo, went off to find Jennet, with Faithful padding at his heels.

  She was sitting behind a wagon, with Tibby drowsing in her lap. To Adam’s relief, Jacques was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Are you all right here?’ he asked her. ‘Where are you sleeping?’

  ‘In the wagon. It’s not bad there.’

  ‘Sir Ivo says he’ll speak to the sergeant. He’ll make him keep the men in order.’

  She touched his arm and he thought he saw a new respect in her face.

  ‘Thanks, Adam. You done a lot for me. Don’t think I’m not grateful. I truly am.’

  Adam smiled.

  ‘That Jacques,’ he said feeling more confident. ‘You want to watch him. He’s a cheat, Jenny. I know it for a fact. You mustn’t trust him.’

  ‘Jacques?’ She shook her head. ‘No, you’ve got him wrong. He’s all right. He’s given me things. Charms and that. He’s lovely with Tibby. He takes an interest.’ She yawned. ‘What a day! I’m glad we got here in the end, though I can’t say it’s like I thought it would be. There’s just one thing though, Adam, that I wanted to ask you. We didn’t have no priest with us on our ship, so Tibby’s never been baptized. I was so scared she’d die before we got here. I’ll have to pluck up my courage tomorrow and go and see Father Jerome. You’ll stand godfather to her, won’t you?’

  Adam felt a flush of pride.

  ‘Godfather? Of course I will. I’d be pleased.’

  The arrival of the second spring brought a restless feeling to the Saracen camp. Saladin had watched and waited throughout the winter, not wishing to throw his men against difficult odds, hoping that hunger and disease would force the Crusaders to give up and withdraw.

  ‘Such cruel, fanatical people,’ Salim overheard him say to Dr Musa. ‘But you can’t deny that they’re brave.’

  ‘As for courage, sire, there’s too much of it around, in my humble opinion,’ Dr Musa had answered. ‘Sticking swords into people – it only leads to trouble. Better to sit down and talk things over quietly.’

  The surrounding courtiers exchanged horrified glances at this audacious speech, but Saladin laughed.

  ‘I’m glad you’re not one of my soldiers, Musa. But you can take your anti-courage message to the barbarians with my goodwill and pleasure. May Allah frustrate their wickedness!’

  The arrival of the Crusaders’ supply ships had roused a new anxiety in the Saracen camp.

  ‘It’s only the beginning,’ one of Dr Musa’s patients grumbled, as he waited outside his tent. ‘The Sultan of France will be here soon, and the devil of England, curse him. There’ll be thousands more Frankish knights and soldiers. Why doesn’t Saladin attack?’

  Another, nursing his infected hand, said, ‘He’s waiting for more troops to join us. They’ll come. Don’t you trust him? Saladin always wins. He ran the Crusaders out of Jerusalem, didn’t he? He’ll drive this lot into the sea.’

  Salim, on edge like everyone else, had taken to going back to his old vantage point, and whenever the doctor let him go, he’d lie on his stomach, trying to make out what the enemy was doing. The boom of the catapults made him shudder when he thought of how frightening the sound must be inside the city itself, but he took comfort from the many buryings that took place every day. Several times he’d seen the boy with the fearsome dog. He’d started watching out for him. They’d only been face to face once, for a few moments, but there had been something unforgettable about the boy. He had a strange intensity about him, like an animal crouched to spring.

  He looked as if he was really scared of me, Salim thought. But he was bigger than me and he had the dog too.

  He watched the new arrivals off the ship come into the Fortis camp, and he tried to count the wagons they’d brought with them.

  ‘Seven or eight, I think,’ he told Ismail, who always wanted to know exactly what he’d seen.

  ‘Could you see what was inside them?’ Ismail asked.

  ‘Of course not! They were too far away. Anyway, they were covered.’

  ‘Weapons, probably,’ guessed Ismail. ‘Arrows, for sure. And food maybe.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Didn’t you say they put the wagons at the very edge of the camp, right under the earth bank? Why don’t we make a raid, little brother, and go in and fetch a couple out?’

  ‘Are you crazy? You couldn’t possibly. You’d never get past the gate, never mind get out again. There are always hundreds of soldiers and knights on guard. You wouldn’t stand a chance. I’ve seen them. You couldn’t do it.’

  But Ismail wouldn’t let the idea go.

  ‘Not a raid then. An ambush. I’ll talk to Captain Arslan. It’s a great idea. He’ll love it. You’ll see.’

  The next day Salim was busy with Solomon, pounding herbs in a mortar to make a healing paste, when to his surprise Captain Arslan came to the pharmacist’s tent and called him out.

  ‘This near section of the camp that you’ve been watching,’ he said. ‘Describe it to me.’

  ‘Well,’ Salim said hesitantly, ‘there are big tents for the lords, and smaller ones, and shelters for the horses, and—’

  ‘I know all that.’ The captain looked impatient. ‘How many knights? How many soldiers? What kind of horses?’

  ‘About twenty-five knights altogether, I think, just in that small section. I don’t know where they’re from. There’s a device with a black hammer on a silver background, and another shows a bear with an axe. There are three or four more banners besides those.’ Salim was frowning as he tried to remember. ‘I don’t know about horses. There were more in the beginning, but they’ve killed most of them. There are only a few left now.’

  ‘Warhorses? Chargers? The big ones are still there?’

  ‘Yes. Some of them have been killed, but not all.’

  ‘Tw
enty-five knights . . .’ the captain repeated thoughtfully. ‘Good.’ He tapped Salim on the shoulder by way of thanks and strode off towards Saladin’s great tent.

  Later, as thousands of little cooking fires sprouted like orange flowers along the lines of Saracen tents, Ismail came to seek Salim out. His face was alive with excitement.

  ‘We’re actually going to do it! We’re going to set up an ambush. We’re going for those twenty-five Frankish knights, the ones you told the captain about. Brilliant, isn’t it? And it’s all my idea!’

  Salim’s heart had skipped uncomfortably.

  ‘What do you mean? You’re going to attack the camp? But you can’t, Ismail! There are too many of them. They’ll kill you!’

  Ismail slapped his chest.

  ‘What, you think I’m scared? What do you take me for? Some little girl from Cairo? I’m a Mamluk, don’t forget. Anyway, you don’t have to worry. We’re going to set up a trap. It’ll be great. Make sure you’re watching, little brother, when the Franks come charging out to chase us. It’ll be a fantastic sight!’

  Blood rushed to Salim’s head. He grabbed Ismail’s arm and shook it.

  ‘Let me come with you. Please, Ismail! Let me ride Kestan. I won’t let you down. You know what a good shot I am. Just let me come!’

  ‘You? Shoot arrows?’ Ismail laughed. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry, Salim, but you’ve never seen us in action. I’ve been training since I was ten years old for this: riding without hands, shooting backwards while galloping forwards – it’s difficult. Captain Arslan wouldn’t let you anywhere near the real action.’

  Salim raged with frustration as the Mamluk troop slipped quietly out of the camp that night, ready to set up the ambush. He’d watched enviously as they’d gone about their preparations, putting on their coats of mail and studded brigandines, sliding daggers inside their belts, filling their quivers with arrows and checking the edges of their swords. He cursed his fate in being cut out of the real action.

  He watched from a distance as the ambush party melted into the night, and when the sound of their horses’ hooves had died away, he limped back moodily to the doctor’s tent. Dr Musa raised a massive eyebrow as he saw the look in his eyes.

  ‘So. A tragedy has taken place? You’ve received news of your imminent death? You have some dreadful crime to confess to me?’

  Salim summoned up the ghost of a smile.

  ‘No, sidi Musa.’

  ‘Good. Then go and tell Solomon that we’ll need more rose-water and sugar ointment. There have been five cases of eye inflammation today, and there are sure to be more tomorrow. And kindly stop looking as if you’ve come from a funeral. Do you want to scare all the patients into fits of depression?’

  That night, battle cries and the clash of swords echoed through Salim’s sleep. As dawn broke, he found himself standing in the path of a silver-armoured knight who was thundering towards him on a gigantic black horse. He was unable to move. Something was clinging to him, wound round his legs, paralysing him. Just as the knight’s lance was lowered to kill him, Salim saw, through the slits of the man’s helmet, that there was nothing there. No eyes. No face. No head. He woke with a sob of terror and lay sweating in the darkness, trying to shake the nightmare away.

  Even if they let me go with them, I’d never be brave enough to be a soldier, he thought miserably. I couldn’t ever be like the Mamluks.

  He had served the doctor his breakfast and was eating his own portion when shouts made them both look up.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Dr Musa said testily, seeing the eager look in Salim’s eye. ‘Go and see what’s happening.’

  Salim was off already, hobbling as fast as he could towards the sound.

  A large number of soldiers had gathered at the edge of the Saracen camp and were hurling insults down towards the Crusaders. Salim could see helmeted heads bob up from behind the bank as puzzled Franks tried to see what was going on.

  This is it. The trap’s being set, thought Salim. They’re trying to lure them out into the ambush.

  Sliding along the hillside, he came to his lookout place, and lay down, propping his chin in his hands.

  A small troop of five or six Kurdish horsemen now appeared, trotting towards the embankment. They were whirling their swords above their heads and shouting, ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ at the tops of their voices.

  Salim could see a ferment now among the English tents. Squires were running about with helmets and coats of mail. Drums were beating. Grooms were saddling the few remaining warhorses. More and more heads were appearing above the earthworks. One archer raised a bow and shot an arrow towards the nearest Kurdish horseman. The arrow missed, but a hail of others followed. The Kurds pulled away out of range, then fitted arrows to their own bows and from their greater height began to shoot back towards the camp.

  There was a roar of anger as an English soldier, pierced through the face, fell backwards off the bank. Salim could see a kind of frenzy among the Crusaders now. Knights weighed down with their heavy chainmail, their heads encased in metal helmets, were lumbering towards their horses. Their squires stood by to hoist them into their saddles, then handed them their swords and lances. It was easy to see who their leader was. Heavier than the others, he carried the longest sword and was the only one to wear plumes in his helmet. A white pennant with a black hammer embroidered on it fluttered from his lance. His horse cavorting under him, he raised his sword and shouted something. Salim was too far away to make out the words, but the circle of knights around him, raising their own lances, shouted in response. Then the big man rode his horse straight through the gap in the bank, whose heavy doors had been hastily pulled open. He waited until all the rest were through after him, then shouted an order. The knights formed themselves hastily into a line, then began to charge.

  The hair rose on Salim’s head as he watched them. The knights rode as one, their lances held straight out in front of them, their banners and the tails of their huge horses streaming out behind. They were a solid wall of power and fury, terrifying, invincible. The very ground seemed to shake with the thunder of their hooves and the air quivered with their battle cry as from every mouth came a scream of ‘God wills it! God wills it!’

  It seemed to Salim that nothing could ever stand in the way of them, as if they would ride over and annihilate the few lightly armed Saracen horsemen, who were racing just ahead of them on their smaller mounts.

  It wasn’t a good idea, Ismail. It wasn’t! he thought. They’ll go straight through the ambush. Get out of their way! You didn’t know what they’d be like!

  The charge was so fast that a few moments later all that was visible was a cloud of dust in the knights’ wake. The place of the ambush, where Ismail and the Mamluks were waiting, was out of sight, over a ridge, more than a mile away. Salim longed to run there, to see what would happen, but he knew it was too far. He had no choice but to go back to the doctor and tell him what he’d seen. There’d be the wounded to care for later, perhaps. He’d have bandages to make and healing draughts of medicine to prepare.

  He was up on his feet, recklessly forgetting to keep himself concealed, when he saw that more people had burst out of the Crusader camp. Foot soldiers, their helmets clapped hastily on to their heads, their bows ready in their hands, were running after the knights. Among them he saw the boy with the dog, and the dog itself, loping along beside him.

  After the excitement of recovering Sir Guy’s lost ship, bitter disappointment afflicted the Fortis camp. The wagons which the new arrivals had brought with them were full of weapons, tools and spare clothing, but what everyone longed for was food, and of that there was very little. The supply ships too, which were meant to feed the whole vast Crusader force, were disappointingly inadequate for tens of thousands of hungry men. There was a little more porridge and bread to go round for the lower orders, and a few extra luxuries for the nobles, but there was nowhere near as much as people had hoped for. Every day, the burying of star
ved bodies continued.

  Discontent made everyone irritable. Tempers flared easily and several men-at-arms in the Fortis camp had been flogged on Lord Guy’s orders for brawling.

  ‘Christ has deserted us,’ Adam heard people mutter. ‘We’re being punished for our sins.’

  No one took much notice at first of the jeers and catcalls coming from the Saracen camp until a look-out ran in from the bank, shouting that heathen horsemen were approaching. News spread quickly that something was happening. Everyone stopped what they were doing and hurried to the open space outside Lord Guy’s tent.

  Another scout ran into the circle.

  ‘They’re holding a cross upside down!’ he yelled. ‘They’re spitting on it! They’re insulting our Lord!’

  Lord Guy’s face flushed darkly.

  ‘I won’t stand for this!’ he roared, throwing aside the goblet he was holding.

  Adam, who had been grooming Grimbald, edged to the front of the crowd in time to see Sir Ivo walk up to Lord Guy and say something quietly to him.

  Lord Guy stared back at the knight, his bloodshot eyes bulging.

  ‘A trap? An ambush? What are you saying? Are you a coward, Ivo? The enemies of Christ are asking for a fight, and by his holy blood we’ll give them one.’ He raised his voice so that everyone could hear. ‘King Richard will soon be here. Do you want us to tell him that we’ve sat here all this time, trembling with fright like a bunch of milkmaids? Archers! Take position on the banks. Fire in volleys. Grooms, saddle up. Knights, arm yourselves! To the charge!’

  A drum began to beat, sending the hairs rising on Adam’s chest. He clenched his fists with excitement.

  He’s right, he thought. We’ve got to show them.

  He had recognized in Lord Guy’s face something he’d often felt himself – a frustration longing to burst out, a suppressed rage that demanded action. He was still staring at the baron when Sir Ivo rushed up to him.

  ‘Hurry up!’ he began, then stopped as if struck by the expression on Adam’s face. He turned to look back at Lord Guy, then shook his head, as if dismissing a strange idea.