Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  Dr Musa took hold of Salim’s arm.

  ‘It’s time we went. Find the Frankish knight, the prisoner.’

  Salim, peering at the unfamiliar faces in the gloom, couldn’t pick out Sir Reynauld. As he stood wondering what to do, a soft voice behind him made him jump.

  ‘My dear young man! I should say, my clever young man. I’m sorry, did I alarm you? No need to be scared. I’m only Jacques, the pedlar. A harmless fellow. The friend of everyone! And I know – I’m sure – that you’ve done miracles in there, with our poor Lord Guy. What a strong man! Amazing, wouldn’t you say? Sure to live. Is that what your master thinks? There’s no secret about it. You can tell me.’ Salim, not sure what to say, said nothing. ‘How sad it would be,’ the coaxing voice went on, ‘how tragic if such a man was to die, leaving us all without our leader! But your master – a wonderful doctor – a brilliant man, so I’m told – will have been certain to save his life. Yes, I feel sure that you would like to tell me so.’

  Salim, twisting round to look at the man, felt a stir of recognition. Wasn’t this the same strange, thin fellow, in his tattered colourful cloak, that he’d seen outside the Saracen camp, on more than one occasion, talking to a couple of camel drivers? He stepped sideways. There was something about the pedlar, in spite of his caressing, flattering voice, that he instinctively disliked.

  ‘I not know anything,’ he said shortly. ‘You know as good as me. Is time now for me to go back.’

  ‘Of course, my dear! And with our poor Sir Reynauld too! A very noble knight, is our Sir Reynauld. Not a man to go back on his word, or leave his friends in the lurch. Now, where was he? I saw him just a minute ago, passing all the secrets of your sultan, no doubt, to that odious – I should say that excellent man, Sir Ivo. He’s over there. Do you see?’

  Salim, only half understanding him, followed his pointing finger with his eyes. He saw Sir Reynauld and hobbled off to fetch him.

  ‘Goodbye, my young friend,’ Jacques called out softly after him. ‘Such a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Praise be to God that we’ve been safely delivered from the clutches of our enemies,’ Dr Musa said fervently, as he and Salim passed through the opening in the Crusader embankment to find their escort of Saracen soldiers impatiently waiting for them.

  ‘But Dr John was nice, wasn’t he?’ Salim said. ‘He liked you, anyway.’

  ‘A good man in his way, no doubt. But naive. A wishful thinker. No grasp of the painful realities of war. How could he possibly believe that I would welcome this rabble of barbarians back into Jerusalem?’

  ‘What did you mean,’ Salim asked curiously, ‘about the last time the Crusaders took Jerusalem? Did they do even worse things than usual?’

  ‘Ha!’ barked Dr Musa, then was silent for a moment. ‘It depends,’ he said at last, ‘on what you think is usual, I suppose. They made all the Jews gather together in the synagogue, then set fire to it. Every one of them was burned alive. What do you think, Salim? Was that “worse than usual”?’

  ‘Oh,’ Salim said in a small voice. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Well, well,’ Dr Musa said, with a weary sigh. ‘It was nearly a hundred years ago, and there’ve been atrocities on all sides. Saladin himself, peace be upon him, is no saint. He’s slaughtered Christian prisoners with his own hands.’

  Salim said nothing, but in his head he was passionately disagreeing.

  ‘And spare a moment of pity for that sad knight,’ Dr Musa said, interrupting his thoughts and pointing to Sir Reynauld, who was walking stiffly ahead of them. ‘I wouldn’t choose to spend the best years of my manhood in a stinking dungeon, as he is likely to do. You see his back? How straight he holds it? Courage, Salim, that’s what you’re seeing. Take a good look. It’s a noble thing, even in an enemy. War’s a horrible business. It brings out the worst in men, but sometimes you see the best too.’

  Salim, knowing that Dr Musa couldn’t see him in the dark, shook his head. He refused to admire Sir Reynauld. Dr Musa was wrong. Saladin was the best there had ever been. Jihad was the noblest of all pursuits, and the cause of Islam was right. The Crusaders were violent, greedy, fanatical invaders, who deserved nothing but death.

  And yet, at that moment, there came into his mind the softening memory of the girl he’d met, holding her little daughter in her arms. There was something so ordinary about her. And then there was the boy, Adam, and his extraordinary story.

  What’s he feeling like now? he kept asking himself. What’s he going to do now?

  It was late by the time they arrived at their own small tent. Nearly everyone in the Saracen camp was asleep, except for the sentries and Solomon the pharmacist, who was pacing up and down, wringing his hands with anxiety.

  ‘Thank God, you’ve returned!’ he said when he saw the short, stout form of the doctor and the slim figure of Salim emerging from the shadows. ‘I was so afraid! How could the Sultan, peace be upon him, have exposed you to such danger? I’ve imagined every kind of fate – torture – death . . .’

  ‘My dear Solomon,’ Dr Musa said breezily. ‘You shouldn’t have distressed yourself. We’ve had a most interesting time. Quite a succession of dramas, in fact. No doubt Salim will give you a highly coloured version of it all in the morning.’ He yawned. ‘Time for bed. Fetch my prayer shawl, Salim. And if any other barbarian lords with holes in their heads need my services, you can tell them to stand outside my tent and wait till the morning.’

  The story of the wounded Frankish baron and the astonishing revelations at his deathbed sped round the Saracen camp.

  ‘And you know what?’ the soldiers told each other. ‘Those ignorant Frankish doctors thought they’d heal the wound by smearing it with pig fat and waving crosses over it! It was only Dr Musa arriving just in time that saved his life.’

  Salim wanted to contradict the stories, but he knew they wouldn’t listen. The story of the poor boy discovering that he was the son of a noble lord, and being granted land and freedom, while the lord’s heir looked on with hatred in his eyes, was too good to leave unvarnished. It was told and retold round a hundred fires in a dozen different languages, and grew more fantastic with every telling. It ended every time on a note of self-congratulation.

  ‘It all goes to show how merciful the Sultan is, peace be upon him,’ one after another concluded. ‘That’ll show the barbarians. Civilized behaviour, that’s what they’ll learn from us. Such generosity! Sending his own doctor! And the man was only some small lord, not even a king or a prince.’

  The story had created an even greater sensation among the Crusaders. It had spread beyond the Fortis part of the camp to the other English troops, and even into the territory of the French and Burgundians, who were camped alongside. In the days that followed, Adam became quite an attraction. Visitors kept strolling around the Fortis quarter, asking for the lucky boy to be pointed out to them.

  Adam hated the fuss. He felt like the midget man at the Ashton fair, who people paid to see.

  ‘I wish they’d all just leave me alone,’ he grumbled to Roger Stepesoft. ‘I can’t turn round without falling over someone who’s come to look at me.’

  Roger, who’d become self-conscious in Adam’s presence, had disappeared and returned a moment later with Hugo de Pomfret.

  ‘Unwanted visitors, eh?’ the sergeant-at-arms had said. ‘Very unpleasant. I’ll warn the sentries. Make sure they’re kept away. You won’t be bothered again, Master Adam.’

  Adam, stunned by the attention and respect, and by being addressed as ‘master’ by such an important personage, had been quite unable to reply.

  Sir Ivo, keeping him close by his side, made sure he didn’t hear half the stories about him, which, growing more colourful all the time, were circulating round the camp.

  ‘Heard the latest?’ Roger said to Treuelove Malter one morning, a week after Lord Guy had been wounded. ‘It seems like Lord Guy wants to disinherit Master Robert and make Adam his heir. It’d suit me. Nasty little piece of work, Robert is. W
e’ll be thanking all the saints for this, Treue. We befriended that boy, when no one else took no notice of him. He won’t forget us, when he’s got the power.’

  Treuelove, who had been squatting over a precious hoard of lentils, carefully picking out the little stones, squinted up at Roger disbelievingly.

  ‘Nah,’ he said at last. ‘Ain’t never going to happen. A man can’t do that – set aside his rightful son for the sake of a bastard. And look at Adam. I ask you. Not brought up to it, is he?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ Roger said, tapping his nose meaningfully, as if he knew more than he was telling.

  While the gossip swirled about him, Lord Guy lay deep in a coma, breathing but scarcely alive, while John Fleetwood and Dr Nicholas hovered over him, disagreeing furiously on how he should be treated.

  ‘Let nature take its course!’ Dr John kept pleading. ‘The shock to his system has been severe. It’s a miracle there’s no infection in the wound. See how nicely it’s healing! He’ll be restored to consciousness at the time of Our Lord’s choosing, and not before.’

  ‘He’ll be restored when the evil spirit in his head is let out,’ Dr Nicholas snapped back. ‘The skull must be reopened, I tell you! I should have insisted on it long ago.’

  Robert, scowling at Dr John, sided with Dr Nicholas.

  ‘Why the delay? Why?’ he would say. ‘It’s as clear as day that there’s a demon infecting my father. It’s a creature of that devil, the dog boy, who’s a witch, if ever I saw one. There was some story I heard about a fiend, with a long tail and fiery eyes, that attacked Vigor and made him rear. The fiend must have entered him when he fell off his horse. It was the same demon speaking through my father’s mouth when he said the boy was his son. Go ahead and bleed him, for the sake of the Virgin! When the demon’s let out, my father will come back to himself and tell the truth.’

  ‘There’s no fiend,’ Dr John countered patiently. ‘Your father was hurt in battle, like the noble soldier he is. His state now, after such a severe head wound, is quite normal. I’ve seen many such cases before. Properly treated, there’s a good chance that he’ll make a full recovery.’

  ‘There’s only one way of finding out the truth!’ Robert answered furiously. ‘Put the dog boy to the test! Apply hot irons to the flesh. If they burn him, we’ll know for sure he’s guilty.’

  ‘That,’ Dr John said, exasperated, ‘is a matter for the Church. Speak to Father Jerome. He’ll have to bring it up with one of the bishops in the camp. Correct procedures will have to be followed.’

  Robert had only muttered in reply.

  It was during a lull in these arguments that Lord Guy, temporarily alone in his tent, opened his eyes and moved his head.

  ‘Water!’ he croaked.

  A page, idly tossing a handful of dice at the tent’s entrance, heard him. He started up and shouted, ‘He’s come round! Lord Guy wants water!’

  Adam, kept busy by Sir Ivo at his daily tasks as squire and groom, was inspecting Grimbald’s rear hooves, wondering if the horse needed to be reshod, when he heard shouts and saw people running towards the great tent.

  That’s it, he thought. He’s died. I’ve missed my chance. I’ll never talk to him now.

  He stood motionless, the patient horse’s huge hoof held in his hand, dreading what might happen next. Lord Guy, even as he lay unconscious, had still been at the centre of the Fortis camp, the pivot on which everything had turned. He had been all that stood between Adam and the fury of Robert, which would, Adam knew, be unleashed on him as soon as he had managed to gather up the reins of his father’s power.

  Then, in the confusion of noise, he heard someone shout, ‘He’s alive! He’s speaking!’ and he dropped Grimbald’s hoof and straightened up.

  ‘Thank God,’ he whispered. ‘Thank God.’

  Jennet, attracted by the noise, hurried past. He’d seen her only in the distance since Lord Guy’s accident. He’d guessed she was keeping out of his way.

  ‘Jenny!’ he called out.

  She stopped and turned, but didn’t step towards him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said, looking at him guardedly. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’

  ‘It’s Lord Guy. He’s woken up. I heard someone shout it.’

  ‘Oh. That’s good. I’ll be getting on, then.’

  ‘Jenny!’ he called out sharply. ‘Don’t go! Why are you avoiding me?’

  She shifted Tibby on to her hip.

  ‘Too grand for the likes of me now, ain’t you? Going up in the world. A real squire already, so I’ve heard. You’ll be made a knight next. And a man of property. You don’t want to go associating with the likes of me.’

  He stared at her, shocked.

  ‘How can you say that? Are you off your head?’

  ‘No, I’m not, thank you very much. Anyway, it’s you that’s avoiding me. I thought at least you’d come by the wagons and tell me all about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenny. I haven’t had a minute to myself!’ he said contritely. ‘There’s all kinds of fools pestering me all day long, and Sir Ivo’s keeping me so close to my work I can’t get away. I’m glad of that, mind you. Stops people getting at me.’

  ‘Getting at you, am I?’ she said huffily. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure. I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Jenny! Don’t! Come back here!’ He ran forward and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Of course I didn’t mean you. You know I didn’t. Come and sit down for a minute. I need you more than anyone else. You know I do.’

  They went across to the mounting block beside the line of horses. She sank down on to it, rocking Tibby up and down automatically on her knee, and smiled up at him, mollified.

  ‘It’s true then, is it? Lord Guy really is your pa?’

  ‘I suppose so. I can’t believe it. I wake up in the morning and think I’ve been dreaming.’ He frowned. ‘But you knew something, didn’t you, Jenny? When Tibby was on the way, you said something about how I ought to understand, of all people. I’ve thought and thought about that. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  She looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘I didn’t like to speak ill of your ma. I knew Gervase wasn’t your father. Pa let it out one day. I asked him who your real father was, but he didn’t know. No one knew. I can’t wait to see Pa’s face when I tell him. I’m longing to go home, aren’t you, Adam? I wish I’d never come. I’m sick to death of all this. I never thought much of life in Ashton, but it seems like heaven now.’

  ‘It’s going to be heaven,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I can’t believe it all yet, Jenny, but if Father Jerome was right, and Lord Guy meant what he said, and I do get Brockwood, it’ll be lovely, you’ll see. It’s a proper manor. Sir Ivo described it to me. It’s got a big house, and a mill and all. First thing I’m going to do is buy your freedom, yours and Tom’s. You can come and live with me.’

  She looked at him, awed, as if he was no longer the little boy she’d always ordered about, but had become someone quite different.

  ‘Thank you, Adam,’ she said, dropping a kiss on Tibby’s matted curls. ‘I’d like that, if we ever make it home.’

  Although Lord Guy had recovered consciousness, it was clear to everyone that he was a changed man. The muscles of his heavy body, which lay motionless on his pallet bed, had already lost their hardness and seemed weak and flabby. He barely spoke or moved, and dribbled like a very old man, plucking feebly at the sheets, his cheeks and mouth slack. Father Jerome, Robert, the doctors and knights bent over him whenever he stirred, trying to understand his few slurred, mumbling words. It was clear to everyone that he was unlikely ever to be himself again. Only Robert and Dr Nicholas held out the hope of a full recovery.

  Slowly, the mantle of power was falling on Robert’s shoulders. Though everyone knew that he would have to wait until the King arrived before he could be confirmed as the rightful heir of Martel, they were beginning, in a hundred small ways, to look to him as their leader. Unsure of himself, desperate to be respected
and to stamp his authority on his father’s people, Robert was forced for the time being to rely on the counsel of the Martel senior knights, and was even prepared to listen to Sir Ivo, though there had never been any trust between them.

  It was two weeks now since the fateful night when Adam had learned the truth about his birth. He woke every day determined to see Lord Guy and speak to him, wanting only to be near him and to look him in the face.

  His chance came late one afternoon when the sun was setting behind the white walls of Acre. A mass had been arranged for all the Fortis people in order to pray for Lord Guy’s recovery. Adam slipped out of the tented church before it was quite over and hurried to Lord Guy’s great tent. The two sentries at the door stepped aside to let him in. A page, left to watch over the baron, was playing with Lord Guy’s dagger, lunging it at an imaginary enemy. He jumped guiltily when he saw Adam and dropped it.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Adam said, embarrassed. ‘You can go out now. I’ll stay with him.’

  He wasn’t used to giving orders and was surprised and gratified when the boy obeyed.

  He tiptoed up to the still form on the low bed. Lord Guy’s eyes were shut and he was breathing slowly and noisily. Adam stared down at him. This broken man, his head roughly shaved and bandaged, with many days growth of beard on his chin, his cheeks pale and puffy, was quite different from the arrogant nobleman Adam had always feared, remote and powerful, swaggering above his serfs on his huge horse. He seemed like another person altogether.

  The baron’s hands were crossed on his chest. There was something pathetic in their soft stillness. Then Adam noticed, with a start of surprise, that there was a kink in the little finger of his left hand, and a ridge running down the centre of the nail. He spread out his own left hand and looked at it. Yes, the kink and ridge on his own little finger were exactly the same. Unexpected tears pricked his eyes.

  ‘Please, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Wake up. I’ve got to talk to you.’