Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  The heavy eyelids fluttered and lifted. Lord Guy was looking directly up at him. His brow creased as he recognized Adam, and his lips moved.

  ‘You really are my father, aren’t you?’ he said desperately. ‘Tell me it’s true!’

  Lord Guy rolled his eyes sideways. Following them, Adam saw a beaker of water and a sponge. Remembering what the Saracen doctor had done, he dipped the sponge in the water and held it to Lord Guy’s mouth. The baron sucked weakly, then pushed the sponge away with his lips.

  ‘It’s true.’ His voice was weak but clear. ‘You are my son. I should have . . . long ago . . .’

  His voice faded.

  Adam knelt down beside the bed. He was afraid that at any moment other people would come bursting in, find him there and send him away. This might be his only chance.

  ‘I want you to forgive me,’ he said urgently.

  Lord Guy stared back at him, puzzled.

  ‘Forgive?’

  ‘It was the mastiff made you fall from your horse. Faithful. I ought to have kept him tied up. He followed me. I didn’t see him till it was too late. It’s my fault that you’re like this.’

  The corner of Lord Guy’s mouth twitched, and Adam was astonished to recognize a smile.

  ‘Ah. The dog. So I am punished.’

  ‘Please,’ Adam said. ‘Forgive me. I want you to bless me. I don’t want anything else. I want your blessing.’

  Lord Guy’s hand moved. He seemed to be trying to lift it.

  ‘Put your hand on mine,’ he said.

  It took all Adam’s courage to touch the heavy swollen fingers, from which the massive rings had been removed. The flesh was cold to the touch. He looked up at Lord Guy’s face and saw to his amazement that a tear had welled up in the corner of one watery blue eye.

  ‘No need to forgive. You have my blessing.’

  A hundred questions raced through Adam’s mind.

  What about Ma? Did you never think of her again? he wanted to ask. Why didn’t you help her when she was so poor and sick? That man, Gervase, you must have known he was no good. Why did you make her marry him? You’ve got a granddaughter, you know that? She’s called Tibby. Robert, he’s going to treat her the same way you treated me. What are you going to do about it, then?

  He couldn’t say a word. His fingers closed almost involuntarily round the hand that was so like his own. He felt a choking mixture of anger, pity, and at last a certainty that the hand he was touching was indeed flesh of his own flesh.

  It was enough. He stood up quickly and hurried out of the tent without a backward glance. He felt like a different person. Stronger. Angrier. More confident.

  No one’s going to do me down any more, he thought. Not any more. Not Robert, nor any of those sniffy squires.

  The sun was setting over the distant sea. He stood and watched as it dipped down into the golden water.

  Am I like him? he wondered. Not just my fingers, and little things like that. I suppose I’ve got a temper like he has. Robert, he’s like his ma. He’s a cold fish. Not like us.

  The pride welling up inside him almost frightened him.

  But I won’t be like him, he told himself, not in the things that matter. I’m going to keep promises, and be faithful, and not betray people or let them down when they need me.

  Then, as the sky turned a rosy pink, mirroring itself in the sea, he felt a burst of joy.

  He must be sorry for what he did to me and Ma. He cried. He forgave me for Faithful worrying his horse. I don’t need to feel bad about that any more. And his blessing. He gave me his blessing, like a real father.

  Adam, now being rigorously trained in squirely duties by Sir Ivo, was present as usual as the knights ate their evening meal, which, although pitifully meagre, was served with as much ceremony as if it had consisted of the half-forgotten sides of beef and haunches of venison they had been used to eating in the great hall at Fortis. Like the other squires, he held the bowl for his knight to wash his hands, served him on bended knee and stood behind him while he ate. And like the other squires, he listened to the knights’ conversation.

  Robert, who, until the accident, had been his father’s squire, had taken to sitting down with the knights. Eyebrows were raised at this, as he had yet to be knighted himself, but in the odd circumstances it was allowed to pass.

  The talk that evening was of a courteous message that had arrived during the day from the Saracen camp, enquiring after the progress of Lord Guy.

  ‘It’s too much,’ Sir Henry de Vere said irritably. ‘Why are they loading us with these obligations? There must be some ulterior motive. Tricky as monkeys, these Saracens are.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Sir Ivo. ‘It’s pure courtesy. Their doctor performed a marvel, John Fleetwood told me. We’re under an obligation to him.’

  ‘Exactly. An obligation,’ snapped Sir Henry. ‘To an infidel! It’s what I dislike about the whole situation. It’s not natural.’

  ‘We should try to repay the favour,’ Sir Ivo said thoughtfully. ‘I agree that the position’s an uncomfortable one. We could send a message back to the doctor, maybe, and ask if there’s anything we can do for him. It’s not likely to cause any difficulty. What could he ask us to do, after all?’

  ‘If you feel so strongly about it, Ivo,’ Sir Henry said waspishly, ‘why don’t you march up to the pagans’ camp yourself and offer to give the man whatever he wants?’

  ‘Do you know,’ Sir Ivo said, a smile lighting his face, ‘I might do just that. At least it would be something to do. Anything’s better than this endless waiting for the King.’

  The next morning the sentries at the edge of the Saracen camp were surprised to see two men and a boy, without armour, shields or weapons, walk slowly out of the Crusader camp and approach their own outposts.

  ‘Halt! Don’t come any further! What do you want?’ they shouted in Arabic.

  ‘We have a message for the Sultan’s doctor, in reply to his own,’ John Fleetwood called back. ‘I’m accompanied by Sir Ivo of Fortis, knight of the wounded baron, and Adam Fitz Guy, his squire. We come without arms or malice.’

  ‘Stay there!’ the sentry called back. ‘Wait.’

  It was mid-morning, and the Mediterranean April sun was already hot. Adam, running his tongue over his dry lips, looked round with interest. It was a pleasant change to be outside the confines of the overcrowded Crusader camp. He breathed in the almost forgotten scent of clean air with gratitude.

  A full half-hour passed.

  ‘Where the devil is the fellow?’ Sir Ivo said, slapping at the flies hovering round his head. ‘I’m beginning to regret this whole idea. Pure folly to expect honourable behaviour from an infidel.’

  ‘He’ll come. He’s a man of honour, I’d swear to it. He must be at the other end of the camp.’ John Fleetwood shaded his eyes against the sun as he scanned the endless lines of tents and the vast numbers of men and horses, which occupied the entire hillside as far as the eye could see. ‘Look at them all! They seem to have multiplied like a plague of locusts. How can we ever expect to beat them off and get through to Jerusalem? The thing’s impossible.’

  ‘Defeatism won’t make it any easier,’ Sir Ivo said. ‘Have you forgotten that Christ and Our Lady fight on our side? Once the King arrives, everything will change. You’ll see.’

  ‘Look, sir,’ Adam said. ‘They’re coming.’

  Dr Musa and Salim had appeared some way above them.

  ‘You can approach!’ the Saracen sentries called out.

  ‘You bring news of our patient?’ Dr Musa called out, as he recognized Dr John. ‘He’s doing well, I hope?’

  ‘Recovering, but slowly,’ said John Fleetwood. ‘Gaining strength. The pulse is regular. There’s been some fever, but that’s to be expected.’

  The medical talk, in Arabic, flowed on between the doctors as Adam and Sir Ivo stood by uncomprehendingly.

  Salim, glad of another opportunity to see the Frankish boy whose story had become so fam
ous, smiled shyly at Adam. Adam smiled back.

  ‘You’re very good, sir,’ Dr Musa was saying. ‘A favour, eh? Now then. I can’t think – no, there’s nothing at all I . . .’

  Salim, waking up suddenly to what was happening, was struck by a stupendous idea.

  ‘Excuse me, sidi Musa,’ he said, plucking at the doctor’s sleeve. ‘I think you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Eh? Forgotten what? Don’t meddle, boy.’ The glare that was turned on him would have turned to stone anyone who didn’t know the doctor.

  ‘The family in Acre,’ Salim pressed on bravely. ‘The merchant’s family. Adil’s family. They need a safe conduct, sidi Musa, out of the city.’

  The doctor stared at him for a long moment.

  ‘Correct!’ he exclaimed at last, turning back to Dr John, who had rapidly translated the request to a disconcerted Sir Ivo. ‘A safe conduct! Yes! An elderly merchant. His wife and small daughter. Another son also. Harmless people. Non-military types. They lived under the Franks for many years. A noble act of rescue.’

  Sir Ivo bowed.

  ‘Naturally, doctor,’ he said stiffly, ‘we’ll do what we can. ‘I’m sure it’ll be possible. You’ll need to accompany us, of course, to the city walls to parley with the garrison.’

  ‘I? Parley?’ The doctor looked thunderstruck. ‘Impossible! I can’t leave the Sultan, peace be upon him, at this critical time. His stomach . . .’

  He stopped, aware that he might be revealing important information to Saladin’s enemies.

  ‘Your boy, then,’ Sir Ivo said, when Dr John had translated. ‘Let him come with us. We’ll take care of him. He’s known to this merchant, I presume?’

  ‘Known? To Adil?’ The doctor spluttered. ‘Oh yes, he’s known to him. Very well indeed. Take him, then, if you must. An imp of Sat—I mean, an excellent boy. Very full of – of ideas. It’s mighty good of you. Not putting you to too much trouble, I hope. A favour indeed. Yes, indeed.’

  Sir Ivo and John Fleetwood conferred for a moment.

  ‘We’ll get the authorities to issue a safe conduct and come back tomorrow morning at about this time,’ Dr John told Dr Musa at last. ‘The boy can walk as far as the city walls, on that leg?’

  Salim flushed.

  ‘Thank you for your concern. I’ve walked much further than that,’ he said stiffly.

  Salim barely slept that night. Although Dr Musa had been irritable all evening, Salim knew that he wasn’t angry but anxious.

  He tossed and turned on his sleeping mat, trying to imagine what it was like in Acre. His parents were suddenly tantalizingly close, almost at his fingertips. They’d been there, a constant nagging worry, since the day he’d left, although he’d managed to push them out of his thoughts most of the time. Now the memory of their faces surged back, so real that he could almost speak to them.

  But what if they’re too sick to move? he thought. What if they’re dead already? Not Mama! Please, not Mama! He shut his eyes for a moment, willing himself to fall asleep, but his thoughts churned round, tying themselves into ever more uncomfortable knots. What if they managed to slip out months ago, by sea through the harbour? Perhaps they escaped up the coast, and they’re living all together in Damascus? Never giving me a thought, probably. A real fool I’ll look, if I get into the city and find they’ve gone.

  He must have dozed off at last, because the muezzin calling the camp to prayer woke him with a start. Dawn was already greying the eastern sky. Salim sat bolt upright, the knowledge of what the day would bring rushing back to him.

  Mama won’t be able to walk all the way up to here, he thought, a new anxiety besetting him. She’ll never make it.

  He decided that he’d think about that problem later, stood up, folded his bedclothes and sleeping mat and stowed them neatly away. The doctor had left the tent already. His prayer shawl was missing. He must have already joined his fellow Jews in their morning worship.

  Quickly, Salim scrambled into his tunic, belted it round his waist, strapped on his sandals, groped for his skullcap, quickly performed his ritual wash and hurried outside, his prayer mat rolled up under his arm. Thousands of others were already obeying the call to prayer. On many mornings, Salim merely parroted the familiar words and went through the actions so automatically that afterwards he could not have said if he’d prayed or not. Today, however, he meant every word.

  ‘In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate,’ he recited, and added in his heart, ‘be merciful and compassionate to my family today!’

  The sounds from the Crusader camp, so familiar that he usually ignored them, seemed strange and almost sinister today. The bells announcing the start of early mass seemed to mock him. The trumpet blasts and shouts of the heralds, passing through the camp and issuing the orders for the day, sounded like warnings. In the distance, near the city walls, the catapults were creaking into action. He flinched as he heard the crash of a boulder against the stone masonry.

  I must have been crazy! Salim thought. How can I possibly go down there? We’ll be smashed to pieces by a flying rock. I’m stupid! So stupid! Why didn’t sidi Musa just tell me to shut up?

  Salim was almost dancing with impatience by the time Dr Musa returned.

  ‘What are you standing there for?’ the doctor snapped. ‘You can’t expect a mule to saddle herself.’

  ‘A mule?’ Salim gaped at him.

  ‘And where are your wits this morning? You think your poor mother will enjoy struggling all this way on foot? And your little sister, she’ll manage it too? Or were you proposing to carry your family here on your back?’

  Embarrassing tears of gratitude threatened to choke Salim.

  ‘Thank you, sidi Musa. I didn’t expect . . .’ he said gruffly. ‘I never thought of taking Suweida. It was wrong. I shouldn’t have – well – tricked you like that. I should have kept my big mouth shut.’

  ‘Wrong?’ the doctor roared. ‘Wrong? It was magnificent! If the Lord had ever given me a son, I would have wished for . . . Now stop all this nonsense. You think if we’re late these ill-mannered Christians will wait for us? And you intend, I suppose, to go among the barbarians looking like a guttersnipe from the bazaar in Aleppo! A clean tunic, if you please! And take off your skullcap. You could pass for an Italian or a Spaniard without it. There’s no need to make yourself a target for some ignorant hothead from the backwoods of Europe.’

  No one was waiting at the meeting place when Dr Musa and Salim, who was leading Suweida, arrived. Saladin, who had followed the story with interest, had sent a small detachment of Kurdish troops to accompany the doctor and his boy into no-man’s-land. They stood well back, not wishing to provoke the enemy, but ready for action if anything untoward should happen.

  Salim squinted up at the sun to check the time. His palms were clammy and he felt an ignoble hope that the infidels had gone back on their promise and were not intending to come. It would be so easy and comfortable to go back with the doctor to his tent and spend a quiet, ordinary morning assisting at the day’s surgery.

  Dr Musa was harrumphing impatiently, and Suweida was flicking her long ears and swishing her tail to distract the flies, when at last a bustle could be heard at the gap in the embankment. A narrow path appeared through the obstacles and the barbarian doctor, the knight and the boy Adam appeared. After them came ten men-at-arms, helmets on their heads and swords hanging from their belts. Like their Saracen counterparts, they stood back to let the doctor and the knight go through, eyeing the enemy in case of a surprise attack.

  ‘So sorry we’re late,’ puffed Dr John, hurrying towards Dr Musa and waving a parchment in the air. ‘A few hitches in acquiring the permit. So many signatures needed! I had no idea.’

  Salim’s heart had given a great thump at the sight of the document.

  It’s going to happen! he thought. I’m going to rescue them! Ali will never be able to kick me around again.

  The doctor’s hand was on his shoulder.

  ‘God go with you,�
� he said gravely. ‘And if you get yourself killed you’ll have me to reckon with, do you hear?’

  Salim felt unexpectedly confident as he walked through the English camp. The place seemed almost familiar from their last visit. The knight and Dr John led the way, with the posse of men-at-arms following. He and Suweida were sandwiched between them, with the boy Adam walking at his side. People looked up as they passed, calling out questions and staring at him. He even saw the girl, bending over a tub of water, scrubbing at some cloth. She smiled and nodded at him.

  They were soon beyond the English part of the camp, working their way along well-trodden paths between tents and grander, brilliantly decorated pavilions, from whose crests fluttered banners with strange patterns on them. The men-at-arms had drawn closer together. There was no banter now.

  ‘They’re French here,’ Adam said to him, as if an explanation was needed. It meant nothing to Salim. The Franks all looked the same to him, with their bare shaven chins and dirty matted hair.

  ‘Your father, he is getting better?’ he asked, trying not to sound too curious.

  Adam looked self-conscious.

  ‘My father, yes. He’s even eating a little bit.’

  Salim was longing to ask more, but there was something in Adam’s silence that put him off.

  ‘These people in Acre we’re going to fetch out,’ Adam said. ‘Who are they? Why do you want to get them out of there?’

  There had been much speculation round the English campfires the night before. Sir Ivo had frowned on it, saying that it was unchivalrous to enquire too closely into a favour that had been requested by a man who seemed to be honourable, even if he was a cursed Jew, but Adam couldn’t resist asking the question.

  They were stepping over a complicated web of guy ropes as he spoke, and Salim, guiding Suweida, was reluctant to answer, afraid that if the Crusaders knew how unimportant the objects of this rescue mission were, they might draw back from it. There was something about the boy Adam, though, something quiet and serious, that made him feel he could trust him.

  ‘They are my father and my mother,’ he said at last.