Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  It was lucky for Adam that no one else in the Fortis camp seemed to share Lord Robert’s view. He became more and more aware, as the weeks passed, of the wisdom of Sir Ivo’s advice. He followed it carefully, working quietly at his squire’s duties, keeping away from flatterers and treating everyone the same, copying Sir Ivo’s respectful manner towards the highborn and lowly alike. He could feel, as he walked through the camp, how right this approach had been. Even the rowdy squires now treated him with calm respect. It was the best he could ask for.

  The crisis, when it came, took everyone by surprise. It began on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of May. The catapults and mangonels which King Philip had brought with him had stepped up the assault on the walls of Acre, and the dull thuds of stone battering stone in the distance, and the screams of wounded men, were so commonplace that the English camp had learned to take them for granted.

  It was just after tierce, the hour of afternoon prayer, when the baron fell into a sudden fit. His limbs went rigid, his eyes rolled up under his eyelids and froth came out of his mouth.

  Unluckily, Dr John Fleetwood had walked over to the Burgundian zone, half a mile away, to visit a fellow doctor. The way was left clear for Dr Nicholas.

  Adam knew nothing about what was happening until it was all over. Sir Ivo came to find him, making him sit down while he told him the news.

  ‘He’s gone. Your father’s soul is now in Paradise,’ he said sorrowfully.

  Adam looked back at him, his feelings strangely blank.

  ‘Just like that? He died?’ he asked. ‘But he was all right this morning. I saw him sitting there when I passed his tent.’

  Sir Ivo shook his head in puzzlement.

  ‘Dr Nicholas is a learned man. Lord Guy went into a fit, which as everyone knows is a demonic sign. Nicholas opened up his head wound, to let the evil out. I didn’t see what happened then, but Sir Baudoin told me that one minute Lord Guy was shaking all over in his fit, and the next minute, as soon as the wound was opened, his soul took flight and left his body. Sir Baudoin said he almost saw it go. I’m sorry, Adam. If he’d lived, your father would have put right the wrongs he did you, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Maybe he would have,’ Adam said quietly. ‘Maybe.’

  News of Lord Guy’s death reached Dr Musa’s ears two weeks later. It made him furiously angry.

  ‘Such a crime! Such wickedness!’ he raged. ‘That man Nick-las, or whatever he calls himself – he’s no more a doctor than my poor Suweida. Cracking open the man’s head? To let a demon out? Did you ever hear anything so stupid? And the operation we’d performed, the good John and I, it was a masterpiece. I tell you confidently, ya-Adil, without false modesty, it was a masterpiece.’

  Salim’s father, who was sitting cross-legged outside the doctor’s tent, took another sip of sage tea. Since his family’s spectacular escape from Acre he had regained weight. The fingers clicking over his worry beads were no longer as thin as chicken bones, and his eyes had lost their vague, vacant look. But his hair, once so black and glossy, was now thin and streaked with grey, and his manner, which had been so confident, was still uncertain.

  ‘Simple-minded, that’s the problem with the Franks,’ he said, watching Salim who was dressing the sore on a Bedouin soldier’s knee. ‘Just like children.’

  ‘Such misplaced faith!’ Dr Musa shook his head. ‘It would make you laugh if they weren’t so violent. To call the Prophet Jesus, peace be upon him, the Son of God! As if the Lord God could father a son!’

  ‘Sheer blasphemy,’ Adil agreed. ‘But if only our people had half their faith and persistence. There’s the Sultan, may God prosper him, desperately trying to keep the chieftains and all their troops here, but they keep slipping away. And the Egyptians and Turks and all the Faithful promise every day to send more men, but never do it.’ He paused, looking across at the walls of Acre. ‘If this isn’t resolved soon . . .’

  A tear welled up in the corner of his eye and ran down his wrinkled cheek.

  Dr Musa patted his hand comfortingly.

  ‘Ali is a strong young man. And you told me yourself that what food there is in Acre goes first to the garrison. He’ll come through this all right. Don’t give up hope, my dear friend.’

  ‘Hope!’ Adil laughed bitterly. ‘What else have I got left but hope? My home gone, my business ruined . . .’

  ‘But you still have your family. Your wife, Zahra and that young villain Salim,’ Dr Musa chided him.

  ‘Yes, yes, Salim!’ Adil brightened. ‘It was a good day’s work that, eh, doctor, when I brought him to you? The little rascal. He didn’t want to come, did he?’

  Salim gave the neatly tied bandage a final pat, and as the soldier went away he looked up at his father and smiled. Things had been different between them since the rescue from Acre. Salim, who was now nearly as tall as as his father, was no longer the spoilt mother’s darling, whom Adil had so often tried to discipline. He was the acknowledged saviour of the family, the experienced campaigner, known and respected throughout the army, a friend of Mamluks, a frequenter of Saladin’s own pavilion. Sometimes, Adil’s humility made Salim feel uncomfortable, and he half wished that his father would resume his old authority, and shout at him, and tell him what to do.

  It’s as if they think I’m responsible for them now, he told himself. But they can’t stay here forever, living off the doctor. If only Ali was here. I wish I could talk to him.

  Zahra came running up to him. Two weeks of good food carefully prescribed by the doctor had turned her back into an energetic child.

  ‘Leave your brother alone, Zahra,’ Khadijah called out from inside the tent that had been pitched for the family. ‘Can’t you see that he has his work to do?’

  ‘Your wife is well, Adil. Better every day,’ Dr Musa remarked cheerfully.

  ‘Al hamdi l’illah. Thank God,’ Adil said fervently. ‘And thanks to you, doctor. How we can ever repay—’

  ‘We can never repay,’ Khadijah called out, surprising both the men by butting into their conversation. ‘But once we’re back on our feet, in Damascus, our home will be your home, doctor, whenever you come that way. And our family will be in debt to yours forever.’

  ‘In Damascus?’ Adil looked astonished. ‘What are you talking about, woman?’

  Khadijah emerged from the tent and put down the tray of rice she’d been picking over.

  ‘We’re going to my brother,’ she said with calm authority. ‘He’ll take you into partnership in his business. We’ll live in his house in Damascus until we get settled.’

  ‘Oh? And how will we get there? Walk all the way with nothing to eat but leaves plucked from the trees? It takes money to travel. Don’t you understand, woman? We’re destitute! There’s nothing left at all!’

  ‘We’ll use this,’ she said, taking off her belt. She turned it over and showed him the row of gold coins stitched along the inside.

  ‘But this is – there’s a fortune here!’ Adil said angrily. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before? Where have you been hiding it? It would have bought us a week’s supply of corn!’

  ‘Umm Fares gave it to me as we were leaving Acre,’ she said. ‘She’s owed me this money for fifteen years and always avoided paying me back. She caught up with us as we were leaving. She said she’d accepted that her death was approaching, according to the will of Allah, and she wanted to have this money off her conscience.’

  Salim had limped over from the bench where he had been tearing strips of cloth to make bandages.

  ‘I needed time to think things over,’ she went on. ‘This gift’s a miracle. It came straight to me from Allah. We’ve got to use it wisely. A new life in Damascus, where trade is always good and we can make a new start – that’s the answer.’

  ‘Damascus – after all, it’s not a bad idea,’ Adil said reluctantly.

  Salim watched him as he looked up at Khadijah and meekly handed the belt back to her.

  It’s as if she’s the husband n
ow, he thought. She’s the powerful one.

  Adil stood up and put the worry beads into his pocket. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow,’ he said, trying to sound decisive. ‘You can’t, Baba, you have to wait for the next caravan,’

  Salim told him. ‘There are too many robbers on the road. You can’t possibly go alone.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Khadijah was vehemently shaking her head. ‘Not tomorrow! Not until Acre is relieved. How can we leave while Ali is still there? How can you think of leaving your son?’

  A turbaned servant, his silk sleeves flapping, came running up to the doctor.

  ‘The Sultan needs you, ya-hakim,’ he panted. ‘His stomach pains have returned.’

  ‘Ah, poor man, may God preserve him. How he suffers!’ Khadijah murmured. ‘Did you hear that, Salim? Hurry! Put your cap straight. Let me tie your belt.’

  ‘Not now, Mama.’ He pushed her aside and hurried into the tent to fetch the bag which the doctor kept permanently in readiness for a call from Saladin’s tent.

  King Richard of England arrived at last, on a blazing day in June. Seagulls screamed round the twenty-five galleys of his fleet, and the ecstatic Crusaders, watching from the shore, were half dazzled by the brilliantly coloured pennants fluttering from his masts and the rows of painted shields decorating the ships’ sides.

  It took all that day and several days more to unload the enormous numbers of horses and wagons, the vast quantity of food and arms and the massive beams and blocks of stone that would be transformed into the greatest catapults and siege towers the citizens of Acre had ever seen.

  Huge fires were lit in the Crusaders camp to celebrate the King’s arrival, and all night there was singing and feasting.

  ‘We’ll see it through now. He’ll pick Acre like a plum,’ Adam said exultantly to Jennet, as they shared a couple of salted herrings, the finest food they’d eaten in more than a year.

  She jerked her chin towards the walls of Acre.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t, them being infidels, but I feel sorry for them, when you think what’s coming. That little girl, the boy’s sister. Skin and bone she was. They’ll all be like that in there by now. And worse. And what they’ll get when our army goes in, I don’t like to think of it.’

  Adam didn’t want to cloud his excitement by feeling sorry for the enemy.

  ‘All they’ve got to do is admit they’re wrong and that their religion’s wicked. If they get baptized they’ll be allowed out free,’ he said, quoting Sir Ivo.

  Jennet said nothing.

  ‘You ought to take a look at the King’s horses,’ Adam said, anxious to change the subject. ‘The chargers are the biggest I’ve ever seen. Poor old Grimbald, he’s no bigger than a donkey beside them. And their helmets! When they all came riding in, the King and his knights, and all the earls and princes – so tall, with their flags, and the sun shining on their armour, and the drums rolling . . .’

  He fell silent, unable to express the glory of it.

  ‘Changed your mind, have you?’ Jennet said drily. ‘Want to be a knight then, after all?’

  He grinned.

  ‘Who wouldn’t want to be one of them? But I couldn’t do it. I’m not like them. Fighting scares me stiff. Don’t tell anyone, though. Don’t want to look a fool, do I?’

  In the Saracen camp the arrival of Richard of England cast everyone into a gloom.

  ‘Malek Richard’s as brave as a lion, so I’ve heard. His false faith burns like a dozen fires, curses on him!’ Ismail told Salim as they sat cracking a bowl of walnuts together. ‘He wants Jerusalem like a man wants a beautiful woman. He’d sell his kingdom for it.’

  ‘He’s rich too,’ Salim said unhappily. ‘And a famous soldier. He’s taken dozens of cities the size of Acre, Baba said. And cruel. Shows no mercy to anyone.’

  ‘Not like Saladin, Allah defend him,’ Ismail sighed. ‘Our Sultan’s too noble for his own good.’

  ‘But he’s powerful. A great leader too,’ objected Salim. ‘Look how he’s beaten the Crusaders every time. They’ve never got the better of him before.’

  Ismail shook his head.

  ‘This time, little brother, I am not so sure.’

  They were interrupted by the distant sound of frantic drum beats and the wild braying of trumpets. Ismail lifted his head.

  ‘It’s from their side,’ Salim said uneasily. ‘They’ve been banging away all night.’

  ‘No, no. They’re ours. It’s coming from the garrison in Acre.’ Ismail jumped to his feet, scattering walnut shells. All around, soldiers were running for their helmets and weapons, captains were shouting to their men, cavalry troops were scrambling to saddle their horses and goats bleated in fright, straining at their tethers.

  What’s the point? Salim thought miserably, as he limped back to the doctor’s tent. It’ll be impossible now that king of theirs is here. We’ve missed our chance. They’re too strong for us.

  A pattern of actions had set in now. The Crusaders, filled with fresh hope and confidence, launched attack after attack on the city walls. Whenever they did so, the desperate garrison of Acre, as their towers tottered, their walls crumbled and their men were hit by flying rocks and hails of arrows, beat their drums and made as much noise as they could to warn Saladin. He would marshal his troops and counter-attack along the rear of the Crusader army, trying to turn his enemy away from the city to face and fight him.

  But he never breaks through! Salim thought despairingly. He never gets over all their banks and ditches. If we don’t get to Acre and rescue everyone, Ali won’t get out alive. I’ll never see him again. I know I won’t.

  The knot of worry, always present in his stomach, pulled itself even tighter. He stepped back hastily as a column of Kurds, led by their turbaned captain, clattered past him at a trot, almost knocking him over in their haste.

  This time the attack would be a big one, he could tell. The troops had lined up all along the escarpment, the cavalry already mounted, the archers with their arrows in position, the lancers and swordsmen ready.

  What are they waiting for? Salim thought, biting his lip. The walls of Acre might have fallen by now!

  Then he saw a familiar figure riding along in front of the massed ranks of the army. It was Saladin himself, his sickness put aside, his black robes flowing out behind him as he trotted up and down in front of his men, calling out, ‘Be lions, my men! Look to Allah for victory! There is no God but God. Allahu akbar!’

  Salim gasped with admiration at the sight of him. This was not the familiar statesman in his silk tent, or the sick man with the stomach pains, or the generous prince dispensing justice. This was a warrior, a great soldier, his whole body taut with purpose, controlling his high-stepping horse with the deft hand of the brilliant polo player he had once been. The eyes of every man in his vast army were on him. As Salim watched, Saladin brought down his sword, and pointing it directly at the enemy roared, ‘Cast down the infidel! God is great!’ Then he set off at a gallop down the slope towards the Crusader embankment, which was bristling already with the helmets and lances of tens of thousands of defenders.

  Salim, shading his eyes against the sun, lost sight of Saladin, engulfed as he soon was by the tide of his own men. He was hugging himself in anguish.

  If only I was with them! I ought to be with them!

  He started as a hand was laid on his shoulder.

  ‘No intelligent man fights, Salim. Remember that,’ Dr Musa said.

  Salim watched, his heart in his mouth, as the Saracen army tried to clamber up the high bank into the terrifying wall of lances.

  ‘Look! We never break through! They always turn us back!’ he said despairingly. He gasped with horror and turned away at the sight of a heroic Syrian who had leaped up on to the embankment only to fall back and lie still with an arrow embedded in his neck.

  They watched for a long time, unable to tear themselves away from the dreadful sight, unable to block their ears against the screams of dying men and the groans of the wounded, u
ntil the Saracen army at last gave up the attempt and straggled, bleeding and exhausted, back into their camp.

  ‘All for nothing,’ Salim said furiously. ‘It’s always the same. They’re stronger than us. They win every time.’

  ‘You think so, do you?’ said Dr Musa, raising his eyes to heaven in exasperation. ‘Listen, Salim! Can’t you hear the difference?’

  ‘Listen to what?’ Salim asked unwillingly.

  ‘The catapults, boy! The bombardment of Acre! It’s stopped! Our troops may have been thrown back, but at least they’ve forced the barbarians to turn away from the city. Your Ali has no doubt had a chance to rest and regain his strength for the next assault. Now go and saddle Suweida. There are wounded men out there to be picked up. Not too near the infidel camp, mind, unless you want to come back stuck all over with arrows like a porcupine.’

  King Richard was ill. He lay in his tent, his rough blond hair coming away in clumps from his reddened scalp. But streams of instructions still poured from his great pavilion, and the Crusaders, filled with good food at last, and vibrant with hope and purpose, dashed to obey. Day and night the carpenters were working on the King’s new and terrifying machines of war. Just to look at them made Adam shudder.

  It won’t be long now, he told himself. I’ll have to really prove myself soon.

  Sir Ivo seemed untroubled by doubts and fears.

  ‘Christ’s blessed Mother has returned to us at last,’ he told Adam one morning, as they walked together towards the church tent for matins. ‘I’ll confess to you that there have been times when I was afraid she’d deserted us.’ He slapped one long-fingered hand against his thigh. ‘But our cause is just! To rescue the Holy Sepulchre from the filth of the pagan! All doubt must be sin. I’ll pray that she’ll beg Christ’s forgiveness for me. I’ve felt her presence around us since the King has arrived, haven’t you, Adam?’