Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  Father Jerome appeared in the centre of the crowd, a crow among pigeons with his beaked nose and black hooded cloak.

  ‘Did I hear you right, Sir Reynauld? You swore an oath to an infidel?’ He looked shocked. ‘You realize, I suppose, that no promise is binding to any but a Christian? You need not regard it. An oath to a Saracen can be broken without any sin.’

  Sir Reynauld frowned.

  ‘My honour, Father, lies in my word. I wouldn’t break it to anyone, Christian or Saracen, or even to a Jew.’

  ‘What’s that? What did he say?’ Dr Musa hissed in Salim’s ear.

  ‘He says he can’t break his promise, even to a Jew,’ Salim whispered back.

  On the other side of the crowd, Sir Ivo, who had been watching closely without participating, muttered, ‘Sir Reynauld’s a good man. I always knew it.’

  Father Jerome, however, was clearly not impressed.

  ‘No infidel understands honour, Sir Reynauld, and that you would do well to remember.’

  ‘I believe that Saladin does,’ Sir Reynauld said defiantly. ‘In any case, do you want me and your three other knights to die? You must treat this man with courtesy! If it’s all a trick, he won’t know anything about medicine, and our doctors will soon find him out. But I’ve seen him with my own eyes give Saladin a draught of medicine to drink and how it revived him. If this is a true act of chivalry on Saladin’s part, think of the shame if we reject it ungraciously!’

  The crowd had been looking uncertainly by turns at Sir Reynauld, Father Jerome and Lord Robert. Adam, however, saw that Father Jerome had looked over their heads to Sir Ivo, the senior and most respected knight of all, and he saw Sir Ivo nod, and bow politely in the direction of the Saracen doctor. Father Jerome considered for a moment and then said, ‘Very well. Don’t let it be said that a Christian could be outdone in nobility by an infidel. And it’s true enough, I’ve heard that the Saracens’ doctors are uncommonly skilled. What if Our Lady herself, in her mercy, sent this man, unpromising though he looks, and we were to turn him away? We may be witnessing a miracle here. Let the doctor go in.’

  ‘How dare you? You can’t do that!’ Lord Robert shouted shrilly. ‘I’m the master here now. You all have to do what I say.’

  ‘You’re not the master yet,’ Father Jerome said severely. ‘And by the terms of your father’s will, which is still unknown, you may not become so at all. In any case, the authority in such matters rests with the Church. Sir Ivo, kindly accompany the man into Lord Guy’s tent and explain his presence to our doctors there.’

  Adam, watching the doctor’s boy, noticed how stiffly he was holding himself, and how his eyes darted from one speaker to another as he tried to follow the twists and turns of the mood in the crowd.

  He’s brave, Adam thought, with grudging admiration. I’d be scared half out of my wits if I was him. He’s doing his best not to show any fear. He remembered how frightened of Faithful the boy had been. Can’t think why I was afraid of him too, he told himself. He looks younger than me. And that leg – it’s like Margaret’s at the mill in Fortis. It doesn’t have to mean he’s a limb of Satan. Margaret wasn’t.

  The doctor was prodding the boy, saying something in his ear, then pushing him insistently forward. Unwillingly, the boy cleared his throat and said, ‘Thank you, sirs. My master hope your lord not too sick. He will help him if is possible.’

  ‘He can speak! Listen to the lad! ’Ow come a Saracen talks the language of a Christian?’ Adam heard men round him saying, as they parted to let Dr Musa and Salim go through.

  The sun had dipped below the horizon, and as Salim and Dr Musa entered Lord Guy’s tent his servants were lighting branches of candles.

  The baron lay on a trestle table, which had been covered with a white linen cloth. He was obscured from Salim’s view by the people crowding round him, and Salim had time to look round the tent. There were no woven cushions, as in Saladin’s marquee, no silk hangings or fine brass trays, only a few chests, a simple chair, a couple of low pallet beds and a crude table with a crucifix on it. A pile of chainmail, shields and weapons had been thrown roughly into a corner, though the baron’s sword and lance had been propped carefully against the canvas of the tent. There were no rugs on the floor. Instead it was strewn with beaten-down straw. Salim’s legs itched at the thought of the fleas that must be in it.

  A couple of bystanders moved back, and Salim saw the baron properly for the first time. He had been stripped to the waist, so that his broad muscular chest, covered with fine curly red hair, was exposed to view. His face was deathly pale, the heavy jaw hanging open, and the hooded eyes closed. Salim had to suppress a gasp of horror at the sight of his head. A section of his scalp, from which the hair had been hastily shaved, had been cut open and pulled back to expose the bone of the skull. Part of it had been shattered, and slivers of bone protruded from it.

  Two men, wearing the caps and gowns of civilians, stood by the baron’s head. They had been arguing in low voices, but turned when Father Jerome entered the tent, with the two strangers in tow.

  ‘You’ll be surprised to hear,’ he announced to them, standing aside to let Dr Musa approach, ‘that this person is no less than Saladin’s personal physician, whom he has sent to help you in your efforts. The boy speaks our language. He can interpret for you.’

  The English surgeons’ mouths gaped open in astonishment. The oldest was the first to recover.

  ‘No need for translation,’ he said, starting forward. ‘I can converse in the doctor’s own language.’ He put out a hand to shake Dr Musa’s. ‘What an opportunity!’ he said, switching to Arabic. ‘Let me introduce myself. Dr John Fleetwood of Sidon at your service.’

  Dr Musa’s face lit up.

  ‘This makes things much easier,’ he said. ‘May I ask, sir, how you come to speak my language so fluently?’

  ‘I was born in this country,’ John Fleetwood said. ‘I’ve lived here all my life. I shall be most interested to hear your opinion of this case. I’ve heard so much about the skill of you Saracen doctors.’

  ‘I must explain,’ Dr Musa said, looking at him fixedly, ‘that I am in fact a Jew.’

  You didn’t have to tell them that, Salim thought silently.

  Consternation spread across Dr John’s face.

  ‘Sir, what can I say? The violence done to your people in England has revolted those of us who . . . I mean to say . . . And now you’re here, in this situation, which is so extraordinary! Belonging, as we do, to opposing armies! But we professional men must draw together. In the circumstances, it’s particularly good of you to . . . A tricky case, as you observe. The fall was very bad, from a height, and the helmet rim shifted and penetrated the skull, which, you can see, has been badly fractured.’

  Salim, relieved that he didn’t have to translate after all, was watching the other doctor, who had turned half away and was shooting Dr Musa hostile glances from over his shoulder. Now he plucked at John Fleetwood’s sleeve.

  ‘Are you out of your mind, John? The man’s a pagan! An emissary of the devil! Surely you’re not going to let him anywhere near Lord Guy? He’ll kill him on the spot. He might even spirit his soul away to eternal damnation with some demonic trick.’

  Dr John sighed, exasperated.

  ‘My dear Nicholas, this is ridiculous! Heaven has sent us this chance to learn something of great value to us as doctors. Whatever else the Saracens may be, and I share your view of them, of course, as our natural enemies, I have to say that their medical knowledge is extensive. I’ve long hoped for just such an opportunity. Besides, this man is a Jew, not a Muslim, so—’

  ‘A Jew?’ hissed Dr Nicholas. ‘A murderer of Christ? This is typical! How can you be so lax? You refuse to see the wider implications of this case. I keep telling you, we should lose no time in bleeding Lord Guy. It’s perfectly clear that the opening up of the skull has caused an evil spirit to enter his body. It’s the only explanation for the shaking of his limbs, which was so severe just now,
and the way he lies so limply.’

  Salim, trying to understand, could grasp only the bare bones of this exchange.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Dr Musa whispered to him.

  ‘This other one says the lord’s got a demon in him,’ he whispered back, ‘and they ought to bleed him.’

  ‘What folly,’ snorted Dr Musa. ‘The man has clearly lost too much blood already.’

  Dr John had turned back to him.

  ‘I must explain,’ he said, looking embarrassed, ‘that my colleague came with the expedition from England and has little experience of . . . Well, we’re losing valuable time. Please, doctor, look at the patient and give us your opinion.’

  It seemed for a moment as if the man called Nicholas, who was standing close to Lord Guy’s head, would refuse to step aside so that Dr Musa could examine the wounded skull, but Father Jerome, who had been listening closely, unexpectedly intervened.

  ‘I believe,’ he said, in his usual measured tones, ‘that the arrival of this doctor is by the direct agency of the Virgin. I counsel you, Dr Nicholas, not to stand in his way. Heaven sends us many instruments, strange though some may appear. Let the man look. He can’t do Lord Guy any harm.’

  As Dr Musa looked down to examine the horrible mess of Lord Guy’s head, Dr Nicholas crossed himself ostentatiously and whisked the hem of his gown away with a flourish. But before Dr Musa could say a word, Lord Guy’s eyes fluttered open and his lips began to move.

  ‘Look! He’s recovering consciousness!’ Father Jerome exclaimed. ‘What did I tell you? Our Lady is already intervening here.’

  Lord Robert had come into the tent. He stood at the foot of the table, biting his bottom lip and twisting his hands.

  ‘Water!’ Lord Guy moaned suddenly. ‘For the love of Christ!’

  Lord Robert darted round to the head of the table and held a beaker to his father’s lips.

  ‘Not like that!’ Dr Musa said hastily. ‘He’ll choke!’

  Gently, he removed the beaker from Lord Robert’s hands. Lord Robert looked as if he wanted to strike him, but Father Jerome put a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘A sponge, Salim, quickly!’ Dr Musa said.

  Salim reached into the bag and brought out a little sponge. Dr Musa dipped it into the beaker of water and held it to Lord Guy’s lips. The baron opened his mouth and sucked at it gratefully. Salim felt some of the tension go out of the watchers, as they saw the gentle care in Dr Musa’s skilled hands and the concern in his eyes.

  The touch of water in his mouth seemed to have revived Lord Guy. He was unable to turn his head, but his eyes were moving, as though he was looking for someone.

  ‘I’m here, Father,’ Lord Robert said, leaning over him.

  Lord Guy ignored him.

  ‘Jerome,’ he croaked.

  ‘Yes, Lord Guy.’

  ‘Confess, I must confess!’ Lord Guy’s voice had grown stronger. ‘To you alone. No one else here.’

  Father Jerome straightened up.

  ‘Clear the tent,’ he said, in his most commanding voice.

  ‘But there’s no time!’ Dr John protested. ‘To leave the skull open for more than a few minutes – the risk of infection . . .’

  ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’ Father Jerome said coldly. ‘Do you place a man’s physical comfort above the salvation of his soul? If he doesn’t confess now, and receive absolution, while he’s conscious, his soul is condemned to the everlasting fires of hell.’

  Salim, translating rapidly, heard Dr Musa sigh with exasperation.

  ‘And condemn his body to a rapid death!’ the doctor muttered. ‘There’s still a chance, but with every moment of delay it lessens.’

  Dr John, though, had nodded with resigned agreement, and ushered Dr Musa out of the tent.

  It was quite dark outside. The flaps of the tent had been tied back and light from the candlelit exterior fell on the ring of anxious faces as the men of Fortis waited for news of their lord. Dr Musa and John Fleetwood stood together, conversing amiably, while Dr Nicholas stood alone, his head bowed, his lips moving, as though he was praying.

  ‘How very interesting,’ Salim heard Dr John say. ‘I’ve never heard that gold dust could be efficacious in such cases before. You’ve seen its effects with your own eyes, you say? Now, I had a most extraordinary case last week . . .’

  Salim’s mind wandered. He was aware that curious eyes were upon him and he slipped out of the light to one side, where he would be less visible. To his surprise, he heard a baby cry, and peering into the gloom saw a girl standing there with a small child in her arms.

  ‘Oi, don’t you give me the eye, you pagan,’ she said indignantly. ‘I don’t want no cursing, thank you very much.’

  He smiled placatingly.

  ‘No cursing. Look at the baby. Is a little boy?’

  ‘No, she’s a girl,’ she said, surprised that he could speak a language she understood. ‘She’s a good little Christian too.’

  He sighed. It had been a long time since he’d seen a small child. He couldn’t help thinking of Zahra.

  The girl had heard his sigh.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, less aggressively. ‘Something the matter?’

  ‘Your baby, she make me think my little sister,’ said Salim. ‘Her name Zahra. She is in Acre. She very hungry, I think. Maybe not alive now.’

  There was a silence as the girl took this in.

  ‘Poor little thing,’ she said at last, real compassion in her voice. ‘Your ma and pa, are they in there too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Adam?’ the girl said, turning to a boy standing in the dark behind her. ‘His folks are all banged up in Acre. Must be horrible in there.’

  The boy called Adam stepped forwards into the half-light.

  ‘I met you before,’ he said. ‘Up there.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of the hillside.

  ‘Yes. You got very big dog.’ Salim stepped back nervously, afraid that the dog was with him.

  ‘It’s all right. He’s tied up. Anyway, he’s all wore out. He had a busy day.’

  ‘Your dog, he bite my friend’s hand, bad,’ Salim said, then wished he hadn’t. It wouldn’t be wise to antagonize anyone, surrounded as he was by potential enemies.

  ‘Your friend?’ Adam was frowning. He couldn’t imagine the ferocious Saracen on his prancing horse, sword raised to kill Sir Ivo, as anybody’s friend.

  ‘Yes. He is Ismail. Very good, very brave Mamluk.’

  ‘Mam what?’ said Jennet, wrinkling her nose.

  Salim didn’t try to explain. He had seen, behind Lord Guy’s great tent, the row of warhorses, and everything else went out of his mind.

  ‘Please,’ he said to Adam, ‘you show me horses? Big horse, much bigger than Mamluk horse. I never see one close.’

  ‘All right.’

  Adam was glad to move on to less treacherous ground. He led the way, the other two following.

  ‘Very big, very fine,’ Salim said, looking up admiringly at Vigor’s long nose, and daringly putting up a hand to stroke it.

  ‘See his back?’ said Adam, proud to show off the charger’s finest points. ‘He’s a special one, he is. Lord Guy’s own. He’s got the weight, see? And look at the muscles in his legs. A beauty, isn’t he?’

  Salim nodded, impressed.

  ‘You ride him?’

  Adam laughed.

  ‘Ride? Me? No. I’m nothing but a—’

  He was about to say ‘dog boy’, but Jennet chimed in, ‘He’s a squire, or nearly. He’s servant to a good knight. Looks after his armour an’ all.’ She shifted Tibby from one arm to the other. ‘What’s it like, then, up there in your camp? You got anything to eat?’

  Salim nodded.

  ‘Not so good food as before. No more meat. Too many mens now. Only eating bread and vegetables.’

  ‘Only!’ Jennet laughed enviously. ‘Give all my teeth for a good hunk of fresh bread, I would.’

  ‘Shut up
, Jenny,’ Adam said roughly, afraid that she might be giving secrets away.

  The three of them stood awkwardly, not knowing what to say next.

  ‘I’m sorry about your folks,’ Jennet said at last, nodding towards the massive walls of Acre, half a mile away, which shone white in the light of the rising moon.

  ‘Me too,’ grunted Adam. ‘I hope they come through all right.’

  The sympathy he was feeling confused him and made him feel ashamed. This boy was an enemy, an infidel, an insulter of the Virgin. He had no business feeling sorry for him.

  Jennet was rocking Tibby, whose grizzling cry was distressing Salim.

  I didn’t know there were babies here, he thought. It sounds hungry too. But I shouldn’t feel sorry for them. They’re barbarians. Unbelievers. They’ve brought all this on themselves.

  ‘What’s her name?’ he asked.

  ‘Tibby,’ said Jennet. ‘And I’m Jennet.’

  ‘I’m Salim,’ he responded. ‘Salim Ibn Adil.’

  ‘Sal what?’

  ‘Salim. It means “safe”.’

  ‘Oh. That’s nice.’

  He was astonished by the way she spoke back at him and looked him straight in the face. The Muslim girls in Acre would never dare speak to a stranger as she was doing. But he remembered how bold the Frankish women had been in the old days, when Acre had been in Crusader hands. The mothers of the boys he’d played with had gone about unveiled, chatting like men with men, scandalizing his own mother. He felt a blush rise when he remembered the things she’d said about them. He was glad it was too dark for the others to notice.

  Father Jerome appeared at the entrance to the tent.

  ‘The doctors can come in now!’ he called out. ‘And the knights. Adam, son of Strangia – is he here? Fetch him quickly! Lord Guy wishes to speak to him.’

  Adam’s heart gave a great bound inside his chest when he heard his name called out. Jennet gasped and put a hand over her mouth.

  ‘What you done, Adam?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said firmly. It was too late to explain anything to Jennet.

  He’d been frightened many times before in his life, but had never felt as terrified as this. Walking out of the dark shadows into the circle of light streaming from the tent, and seeing the eyes of the whole Fortis contingent on him, was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He felt like an animal being herded to the killing place.