Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  It had not been the only action that day. Saladin had ordered small raids and attacks all along the Crusader lines. The action had come as a relief to everyone.

  ‘The sooner we show these criminals what they can expect, the sooner we can all go home,’ the soldiers muttered, but without much conviction. In spite of their half-starved, miserable condition, the Crusaders had resisted ferociously, and there had been Saracen casualties, with fewer Crusader prisoners than had been expected.

  A steady trickle of wounded had been coming in all day. Most of the wounds were from arrows, but there were also men with hideous gashes from swords and lances. They had been sent straight to the field hospital, where surgeons, summoned by Saladin in readiness for the coming season of war, had set up beds and trained orderlies in the care of wounds.

  ‘God be thanked,’ Dr Musa said, as the injured were carried past his tent. ‘A doctor is a doctor and a surgeon is a surgeon. Fish is not fowl, nor fowl fish.’

  ‘But none of them could have saved Ismail, the way you did,’ Salim objected. He had secretly imagined himself sharing the glory of Dr Musa’s amazing exploits in the saving of heroes’ lives.

  ‘Patching up fools so that they can rush back into battle again – so that’s what medicine means to you, is it? No, my boy. The inner workings of the body, its humours, its marvellous mechanisms – understanding and regulating – that’s our art. Art, do you hear me?’

  Ismail, nursing a mangled hand, had been taken to the hospital, but had walked straight out of it again, and come to find Dr Musa. He looked pale and sorrowful.

  ‘I don’t trust them in there,’ he said. ‘You fixed me up brilliantly last time. Please, ya-hakim, help me.’

  Dr Musa, sighed, pushed his turban straight, then took the hand Ismail was holding out to him and bent to study it.

  ‘What’s this? Teeth marks? The Christians bite when they fight? I knew they were barbarians, but this . . . !’

  ‘No, no.’ Ismail shook his head. ‘It wasn’t a man. It was a dog. A monster! The size of a lion, honestly. I had hold of an infidel’s horse by the bridle. Hassan was trying to get him with his mace. But the dog come from nowhere like – like an evil spirit. He bit me so hard, I had to let the horse go. Then the knight lifted his sword and –’ he demonstrated, raising his sword arm and thrusting upwards – ‘he caught Hassan in the neck, like this. He didn’t have a chance.’ He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘Hassan was always a good friend to me. He was like my older brother.’

  Salim looked down. He couldn’t bear to see Ismail cry. And he remembered Hassan well.

  ‘You mustn’t mind too much, Ismail,’ he said gruffly. ‘Hassan was a martyr for Islam. He’s in Paradise now.’

  ‘Where you will be shortly if we don’t clean up this hand,’ Dr Musa remarked drily. ‘Dog bites infect easily. Water, Salim, and oil of woundwort. Only barley soup for the next few days, young man. And chicken. No mutton or goat meat.’

  Ismail smiled weakly.

  ‘Chicken? There haven’t been any chickens for us lot for months. The food’s lousy now.’

  The doctor was gently feeling the injured hand.

  ‘No bones broken. It will mend soon enough if you follow my orders. I’ll need to bleed you in a few days to balance the humours. You lead a charmed life, Ismail, though I fear it will be a short one if you don’t take more care.’

  Ismail drew himself up.

  ‘Whoever heard of a Mamluk taking care?’ he said, bowed his thanks, and walked away.

  The rest of the day dragged for Salim. He longed to go to the Mamluk camp and hear more about the ambush. Secretly too he wondered about the Frankish boy and his huge dog. He hurried through his duties, tidying away the doctor’s instruments, fetching water and sweeping out the tent, but just when he was about to ask permission to slip away, Dr Musa said, ‘A clean tunic now, and kindly wash your face. I have an audience with the Sultan, and I want you to come with me.’

  Salim tidied himself up as quickly as he could, while the doctor muttered over the medicine chest, ‘Oil of thyme. Fennel seeds . . . Are you ready, boy?’

  Saladin’s tent was crowded with the captains of the various troops that made up his huge army, all waiting their turn to tell the Sultan of their exploits that day, but the doctor was well known to the guards and they ushered him in at once, allowing Salim to follow.

  Instead of the imam who usually sat on a rug near the Sultan’s dais, reading from the Koran, there was a musician plucking at the strings of a lute. His song rang out above the buzz of voices.

  This is war! This is war!

  The white sword’s point

  Is red with blood

  And the iron of the lance

  Is stained with gore.

  It is war! It is war!

  Saladin was sitting cross-legged, as usual, his face lined with pain. In sharp contrast to the silk robes and turbans of his courtiers, he was wearing the simple, rough gown of a holy man.

  ‘Doctor!’ he called out, catching sight of Dr Musa. ‘You’ve brought my draught?’

  ‘Yes, sire. But first let me check your pulse.’

  There was a commotion by the entrance as the doctor bent over Saladin’s wrist. Turning, Salim saw the four Frankish knights stumbling in, their feet and hands shackled. Their coats of mail had been stripped off and they were wearing their simple padded under-tunics. They seemed smaller without their armour and held themselves stiffly. Their heads high, they looked directly ahead. Salim thought he could almost smell their fear, though they were doing their best to hide it.

  Saladin drank down the beaker of medicine the doctor had given him and waved him aside.

  ‘Let the prisoners come near,’ he ordered.

  The knights shuffled forwards, their chains clanking, until they were standing in front of the Sultan. They looked round, as if expecting a much more glorious personage than this simple middle-aged man in his rough gown and plain black turban. Then the oldest knight felt the hand of a guard press firmly down on his shoulder, and he obediently sank down to his knees. The others knelt too.

  ‘Your names and rank?’ Saladin asked. ‘Where’s the interpreter?’

  A man stepped forwards. He said something unintelligible, and the knights looked back at him, puzzled.

  ‘They don’t know Italian, sire,’ the interpreter told Saladin. ‘Speak to them in French.’

  The interpreter tried again. The knights understood.

  ‘My name is Reynauld Croc Venator,’ the oldest one said stiffly. ‘I fight for Christ and his Mother under the banner of Baron Guy of Martel, who is my liege lord.’

  The others spoke one after the other.

  ‘Raymond de Pommeroy, knight vassal of Martel.’ ‘Baldwin le Blond, knight vassal of Martel.’ ‘Tancred de Bohon, knight vassal of Martel.’

  ‘What is this Martel?’ Saladin asked, without waiting for the interpreter, who translated his question for the knights.

  ‘Martel is the name of a noble and puissant lord, baron of England, vassal of Richard, King of England and Duke of Aquitaine,’ Sir Reynauld said proudly.

  Saladin stared down into his eyes.

  ‘Sir Reynauld,’ he said softly. ‘You are a brave knight, and I respect your valour. You’ll be treated here with courtesy. But

  I am asking you, now, all of you, to renounce your false religion and become followers of Islam. If you do, honours will be heaped on you, and you’ll be free to go wherever you want.’

  A flush of indignation burned in three of the knights’ faces when they understood this, though Sir Tancred looked sideways round the tent, as if he was assessing it.

  ‘I speak for us all,’ said Sir Reynauld boldly. ‘You may use us as you will, torture us, sever our limbs or burn our bodies, but you may not have our souls. We will never betray our Saviour.’

  Saladin, who had been leaning forwards, sat back wearily.

  ‘You are misguided, but courageous. If your lord is as noble as you say, no d
oubt he will pay your ransom money, which I set at three hundred dinars for each of you.’

  The knights looked at each other, shocked at the size of the sum.

  ‘But my lord,’ Sir Reynauld said, ‘Martel has no money left. He’s broken himself to pay for this campaign.’

  ‘Then he would have done better to stay at home,’ Saladin said shortly. ‘No doubt King Richard, if he ever arrives, will be interested in your fate.’

  Sir Tancred leaned forwards and whispered in Sir Reynauld’s ear. Sir Reynauld shook him off roughly.

  ‘What do you mean, pretend to convert?’ Salim heard him hiss. ‘I don’t want to burn in hell forever. Go your own way if you must, but don’t dishonour the rest of us.’

  Saladin was watching with interest, sensing the strains between them.

  ‘Think it over,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to you individually tomorrow. You’ve invaded our land, insulted the Prophet, peace be upon him, and brought death and misery to our people, but vengeance is not the message of Islam. Your lives are not to be forfeit. You’ll be held in a safe place and treated with courtesy until your ransoms are paid.’

  ‘By God’s blood, twenty years in a stinking dungeon in Damascus,’ Sir Tancred said angrily, under his breath. ‘Is that what you want, Sir Reynauld?’

  Saladin had waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, and the guards were hauling the knights to their feet. But as they turned to shuffle away, a messenger, dressed in the simple clothes of a shepherd, came into the tent, went boldly up to Saladin, and spoke into his ear.

  ‘Wait,’ Saladin called out to the departing knights. ‘Your lord, what was his name? What is the name of his lands?’

  ‘Fortis,’ Sir Reynauld said.

  ‘I fear I have bad news for you.’ Saladin sounded genuinely sorry. ‘Your lord has fallen badly from his horse. It appears he has fractured his skull. He lies between life and death.’

  A gasp broke from the knights. They stared back at Saladin, shocked and astonished. Saladin questioned the messenger quietly, who whispered to him again.

  ‘I hear,’ Saladin went on, ‘that your lord is not a young man, but has great courage, and has led his people nobly.’ He turned to dismiss the messenger, and as he did so he noticed Dr Musa. ‘This is not the time to rejoice in the downfall of an enemy. The way of Islam is to spread rose-water rather than blood. I’ll send my own doctor to him, as a symbol of the mercifulness of Allah. Dr Musa, you’ll take the boy as your interpreter and attend the English baron. I’ll be most interested to hear your account of him when you return. It’s one thing for hot-headed young men to go adventuring far from home, but in an old man it shows true faith and nobility, however misguided. Come tomorrow, and bring me more of this draught. I can feel its calming effect on my stomach already.’

  Dr Musa was barely out of the great tent when he began to give vent to his feelings.

  ‘What have I done, O Lord, to deserve this? To send me forth into the lion’s den! Me, a peaceful, God-fearing Jew, who has observed Thy laws and walked in Thy ways all my life!’ His eye fell on Salim. ‘And why should the punishment fall on this innocent child?’ He tugged distractedly at his beard. ‘So this is what we’re expected to do, is it? We walk up to their fortified bank, ignore their blood-crazed archers and call out, “Saladin’s doctor to see the injured lord,” and they answer, “Oh yes, you’re very welcome, we don’t have a single doctor of our own, come straight in. We’ve been waiting for you.” I tell you, Salim, my boy, this is a bad turn our master’s played us.’

  ‘Doctor!’ One of Saladin’s captains was hurrying up to them. ‘Do you need anything to take with you? Fetch it now. You must go at once.’

  ‘He means it then?’ Dr Musa’s usually deep voice rose almost to a squeak. ‘Saladin really wants to send us to our deaths?’

  The captain laughed.

  ‘It’s not that bad. You’ll be fine. One of the English knights will go with you. He’s pledged his oath to take you there safely and bring you back again. He knows full well, anyway, that if any harm comes to you, and if he doesn’t come back himself, his friends will be beheaded. Anyway, I and my men will escort you as far as the camp. Really, you mustn’t be afraid. Saladin values you far too much to send you into danger.’

  Dr Musa’s laugh rang hollow.

  ‘Excellent, captain. You make it sound just like a pleasant little outing. And suppose this lord dies under my treatment? What will his followers do then? Will they blame me? I rather think they will. What happened to him, anyway? A bad fall, wasn’t it? While wearing all that heavy Frankish armour? If his injuries are as severe as I imagine, there’ll be little enough I can do for him. My one comfort is that those ignorant barbarian doctors will no doubt have killed him by now. But I’ll obey. I must, after all. I’ll put a few things by to take with me.

  Salim, we may have to cauterize wounds. Find the irons. Pack them in my bag.’

  The reappearance of Sir Reynauld caused a sensation in the Fortis camp. He was surrounded at once by a jostling crowd as everyone hurled questions at him. Dr Musa and Salim, ushered through the gap in the bank behind him, were almost unnoticed, except by Adam. He stared at them curiously, recognizing Salim with surprise, before turning back to listen to Sir Reynauld.

  ‘Where are Raymond and Baldwin? What’s happened to Tancred?’ people were shouting.

  Sir Reynauld lifted a hand and they fell silent.

  ‘They’re prisoners of Saladin, like I am myself,’ he began with a wry smile. ‘Though seeing me here, you may not believe it.’

  ‘Why’s he let you go? What’s he like, anyway?’ someone yelled.

  ‘He’s treated us so far with courtesy,’ Sir Reynauld said. ‘Though he did ask us to renounce our faith and follow his cursed prophet.’

  ‘Heretic! Blasphemer!’ the crowd shouted.

  ‘But there’s to be no force.’ Sir Reynauld had to raise his voice to be heard. ‘We’ve chosen freely, and with his respect, to remain faithful to the cross. We’ve been well fed too.’

  This provoked envious murmurs, but everyone was now settling to listen.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Dr Musa muttered to Salim. They were standing uneasily on the edge of the crowd. More people had noticed them now and puzzled glances were being cast in their direction.

  ‘He’s describing the Sultan, and his tent, and how many captains there are, and what they gave him to eat,’ Salim whispered back. To his relief, he was following the knight’s speech more easily than he’d expected. ‘He’s saying that the Sultan doesn’t look like a king because of his clothes.’

  ‘Hah!’ burst out the doctor, more loudly than he’d intended. He dropped his voice again. ‘Foolish men look on the outward appearance, my boy, remember that. But the Lord looketh upon the heart.’

  ‘And then, to crown it all,’ Sir Reynauld was saying, ‘someone came in to tell him of Lord Guy’s fall, and how he was lying near to death.’

  ‘Who? How? How did they know?’ The buzz of voices had broken out again. ‘There’s a spy in the camp! No – it must have been witchcraft. The work of the devil! The devil tells secrets to his own!’

  Sir Reynauld raised his voice again. He was speaking with impressive earnestness.

  ‘I don’t know how he knew, but there was no smell of witchcraft about it. Saladin said that he admired the courage of Lord Guy, him not being a young man, and so full of faith. He seemed quite sorry to hear he was so badly hurt.’

  The murmurs died down. Adam, who was listening intently, felt a glow of pride.

  Even the fiend Saladin, the son of hell, respects Martel, he thought.

  ‘Saladin said that the way of Islam is to spread rose-water rather than blood,’ Sir Reynauld went on, almost unwillingly. ‘That’s why he’s sent—’

  He was interrupted by hoots of derision, even though some in the crowd were silent and looked puzzled.

  Everyone turned as Lord Robert, who had run out of Lord Guy’s tent, pushed his way through to
the front of the crowd. His face was tight with strain. Though he was still some inches shorter than most of his father’s vassals, Adam could see that he was making himself look as tall as possible.

  ‘What is all this?’ he said in his high thin voice. ‘How dare you make this noise when my father’s so ill? Sir Reynauld! What are you doing here? How did you escape?’

  Everyone tried to explain.

  Lord Robert frowned when at last he’d understood the gist.

  ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sir Reynauld,’ he said, trying to speak gruffly in his father’s voice. ‘You shouldn’t have listened to that heathen. Why did he send you back here, anyway? Charmed you, did he? What are you trying to do – turn us all into infidels?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ Sir Reynauld spoke with outward respect, but he looked down into Lord Robert’s face with contempt. ‘Saladin was sorry to hear of your father’s accident. He’s sent his own doctor to attend him.’

  Eyes swivelled round to Dr Musa, who looked back at the crowd with what dignity he could muster. Salim, seeing him through their eyes, was horribly aware of his master’s crumpled gown and untidy turban, the tail of which was escaping as usual down the doctor’s back.

  ‘His doctor? You believe that?’ Lord Robert said furiously. ‘It’s a trick! A trap! Saladin’s sent the man here to murder my father. Seize him! Take the boy too. Look at him – a cripple touched by Satan! Torture will get the truth out of them. Put out their eyes!’

  Salim’s heart bounded in his chest as soldiers lunged forwards to grab him. He set his face, trying not cry out, or shut his eyes, or show the terror he was feeling.

  The lion’s den, he thought. Sidi Musa was right. We’re in the lion’s den. Ali would be brave if this was happening to him. I’ve got to be too.

  ‘Stop! Don’t touch them! Lord Robert, please!’ The urgency in Sir Reynauld’s voice made everyone draw back. ‘If you harm the doctor or the boy in any way, your three knights will die. And so will I. I’ve sworn an oath to return to my imprisonment and take these two back safely.’