Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  He stood up and put out his hand. Adam took it in his. This was the end, then, of their strange friendship. He knew that they would never meet again.

  ‘Shukran,’ he said. He pointed at Tibby. ‘She’d say it too if she could. I’ll tell her all about you when she’s old enough to understand. About what you’ve done for her. I wish I could do something for you and the doctor.’

  Salim shook his head.

  ‘Not to think like that. You help my family out of Acre. They are safe because of you.’

  The memory of the massacre fell between them like a shadow.

  ‘Come on,’ said Tewfik. ‘Let him go, Salim. We have a long way to go today.’

  Salim helped Adam tie Tibby on to his back again.

  ‘Thank the doctor for his turban,’ he said. ‘I bet he looks funny without it.’

  They both laughed, and once they’d started they couldn’t stop, their deeper feelings hidden.

  Salim cupped his hands for Adam’s foot to help him mount. It was strange feeling the child on his back, but she settled down quickly, chewing on the piece of bread that Salim had given her.

  He watched as the horses picked their way along the hillside. They would avoid the main track to Acre, he knew. Tewfik would find other, quieter routes where they would meet few travellers. A few minutes later, they were out of sight.

  With both of them mounted, and no slow mule to hold them back, the return journey to Acre was faster than Adam would have believed possible. Tewfik had led the way, riding fast along small tracks up in the hills, stopping only to eat and sleep. Tibby had fretted sometimes, and twice she had screamed with such red-faced rage that Adam had been afraid that a scorpion had stung her. They had stopped and he had unwrapped her, staring at her helplessly. But Tewfik, who had children of his own, had laughed, and coaxed her back into a good humour. Most of the time, though, she’d slept against Adam’s back, soothed by the jolting rhythm of the horse.

  The hills just inland were alive with Saracen troops, and several times they’d been challenged. Adam had waited quietly, his heart in his mouth, while Tewfik had made some kind of explanation, wondering, for the hundredth time, why this man was doing so much to help him. They’d met King Richard’s forces at sundown on the third day. Hugging the coastline and keeping to the flat plain, the Franks had progressed only a few miles south from Acre and were now camped round the port of Haifa.

  They could smell the Crusader army before they saw it. The evening breeze wafted towards them the hot familiar stench of human filth, the same foul miasma that had hung over the camp outside Acre. They halted on a low outcrop from which they could look down on the walls of Haifa and the vast mass of men and horses that covered the plain around it. Tewfik nodded at Adam and turned his horse, and Adam, understanding his gesture, dismounted and lifted his hand to shake Tewfik’s.

  ‘Shukran,’ he said, putting his heart into the word. ‘I’ll never forget you.’

  Tewfik took the reins of Adam’s horse and waved a hand in a matter-of-fact farewell. A moment later he was trotting back towards the nearest Saracen position, half a mile away.

  Adam narrowed his eyes against the glare of the setting sun to read the forest of banners fluttering above the Crusader camp. To his relief, the black hammer of Martel was easy to pick out. It was a mile or so away. It would be dark by the time he reached it, but that was no bad thing. He’d get close enough to call out and make himself understood before a nervous archer could put an arrow through him.

  Faithful bounded ahead of him, barking joyously, as Adam entered at last the ring of familiar faces round the Fortis cooking fires. His palms were clammy with nervousness. Sir Ivo would be very angry, he knew. He didn’t know what kind of punishment was reserved for squires who ran away, but if Lord Robert had a say in it, it would be cruel.

  ‘Well, look who’s here!’ One of the squires had seen him. ‘We rather hoped we’d seen the last of you.’

  The boy’s sneering laugh attracted others. Adam hardly noticed him. He unwound the doctor’s turban, freeing Tibby, who, tired and hungry, stood and bawled, her fists bunched into her eyes. There was an answering cry from behind the nearest tent and Joan flew forwards, her gown, ragged with age and wear, billowing out behind her.

  ‘Tibby! My little chick!’ She scooped Tibby up in her arms. ‘No need for that now. Old Joanie’s here.’ She smiled delightedly at Adam over Tibby’s head. ‘How ever did you get her back? I was feared I’d never see you again.’

  ‘Later, Joan. I’ll tell you later. Get her something to drink. She’s thirsty. And food. She hasn’t eaten much all day.’

  ‘Come with me, lovey,’ Joan crooned in Tibby’s ear, and Tibby’s cries died away as she was carried off towards the wagons.

  ‘Where have you been?’ one of the friendlier squires asked. ‘You’re in trouble, Adam. Squires don’t simply run off and abandon their knights. Or didn’t you know? A whipping’s the least you can expect. Lord Robert’s absolutely furious.’

  Adam licked his dry lips.

  ‘It was the little girl. Slavers took her. I’ve been nearly all the way to Jerusalem to get her back.’

  Mouths gaped open.

  ‘What? You’ve been where? Who are you trying to fool?’

  ‘The Saracen doctor helped me. I travelled with him.’ A small glow warmed Adam as he thought of his adventure. He didn’t care that none of them seemed to believe him. These fools would never have dared go so far or do so much, for all their clever swordplay and horsemanship.

  ‘The Saracen doctor? But he’s a Jew,’ one of them was saying.

  ‘What is this?’ Father Jerome’s tall, black-clad figure stalked into the firelight.

  ‘It’s Adam Fitz Guy, Father. He claims to have been to Jerusalem. With the Jew doctor,’ eager voices told him.

  Father Jerome’s hawk-like eyes swept round the group.

  ‘Get back to your duties. You –’ he pointed to the nearest squire – ‘fetch the sergeant. This boy is under arrest.’

  ‘Sir Ivo,’ Adam managed to say, ‘where is he? Can I see him?’

  Father Jerome was already turning away.

  ‘Your knight has been badly wounded. You have forfeited the right to serve him, or indeed to speak to him ever again.’

  Adam barely shut his eyes that night. Two men-at-arms had dragged him away to a dismal corner of the camp where other prisoners, chained together, were lying on the ground. Most were sunk in silence, but one, on whom the marks of recent torture could be seen even in the dim light of the newly risen moon, was raving dementedly.

  He tried to think, but his mind was numbed with the shock of being a shackled prisoner. If only he could speak to Sir Ivo! If only he could explain! But if Sir Ivo really was injured, perhaps even at death’s door, there would be no one to listen to him. Lord Robert would relish this opportunity to put him away, perhaps forever. He’d be lucky to get away with his life.

  He lay on his back, watching as the moon sank, brightening the stars, which in their turn faded as dawn approached. A kick in the ribs roused him.

  ‘Get up. Get moving,’ a rough voice said.

  Adam struggled to his feet. His shackles were removed, and with a man on each side of him he was marched ignominiously through the camp, stared at by the yawning, slowly stirring men.

  Most of the Crusader army had camped overnight in the open air, and only a few nobles and senior churchmen had bothered to unpack their tents. Lord Robert, keen to uphold his dignity, had had his father’s pavilion painstakingly erected. Adam’s heart sank as he saw the black hammer fluttering from its crest.

  The guards halted outside. A squire, looking out, called back inside, ‘He’s here, my lord.’

  A moment later, Lord Robert himself appeared. He had dressed hastily and his belt was tangled in his tunic. Adam read greedy triumph in his face, and felt his fists clench nervously.

  ‘Desertion,’ Lord Robert said, his high-pitched voice squeaky with satisfaction. ‘Runn
ing away. An insult to your knight and to me. I shall send you to the galleys. Ten years chained to an oar will teach you.’ A squire came in and tried to catch his eye. ‘What? What is it? I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘Father Jerome’s here,’ the squire said.

  ‘Tell him I’m occupied. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  But Father Jerome had already marched in.

  ‘Have you heard his statement?’ he demanded, bending a thunderous frown on Adam. ‘What has he to say?’

  ‘There’s no need. There’s no time,’ Lord Robert said, irritated. ‘His actions have condemned him.’

  ‘I will tell you,’ Adam said with the boldness of desperation. ‘Anyway, it concerns you.’

  Lord Robert’s eyes shifted sideways.

  ‘I told you, there’s no time. The heralds will be calling the departure any time now.’

  ‘Let him speak,’ said Father Jerome.

  Adam tried to gather his thoughts together.

  ‘It was the pedlar, Jacques. And Tibby,’ he began, but his voice cracked with thirst. He stopped, coughing.

  ‘Water!’ Father Jerome called out. ‘Quickly!’

  A beaker was poured out for Adam. He drank it in one gulp. The cool liquid cleared his head. He began to talk, the words tumbling over each other in his haste to tell it all. Outside could be heard the shouted commands of sergeants, the clatter of breakfast pots and the snorting of horses as the camp prepared for the arduous day’s march ahead.

  Lord Robert flushed at the mention of Tibby, then he turned his head and stared out of the tent.

  ‘This doctor, it’s the same man who attended Lord Guy?’ Father Jerome asked, as Adam described how he’d lain in wait for Dr Musa.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Jew?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Adam faltered at the distaste he read in Father Jerome’s face, but he plunged recklessly on. He thought he saw the priest’s eyes widen as he described the snatching of Tibby, and the escape over the wall of the khan, but otherwise Father Jerome listened without expression. Lord Robert didn’t move at all.

  ‘If I hadn’t rescued Tibby,’ Adam finished defiantly, ‘she’d have been sold to a Saracen and brought up an – an infidel.’

  Father Jerome nodded, and Adam saw that this had hit its mark.

  ‘That is true, and your motives, I have to admit, were pure,’ Father Jerome said at last. ‘Your story even has much to commend it. But you have been consorting with a Jew and with the cursed Turks. For whatever reason, good or bad, this is a sin, and you must do penance. Fifty paternosters . . .’

  Lord Robert spun round, his eyes blazing.

  ‘A few prayers? Is that all? For the crime of desertion? Do you want to encourage every other squire to run off on a jaunt of his own whenever his fancy takes him?’

  Father Jerome stared steadily at him. After a moment, Lord Robert dropped his eyes.

  ‘You are forgetting, perhaps,’ Father Jerome said coldly, ‘that the immortal soul of a child was at stake here. A child to whom, I believe, some special duty is owed. You are right, however, and there is a greater punishment in store for you, Adam. You must give up the glory of serving Christ in this blessed crusade. Sir Ivo, as you were told last night, has been injured.’

  ‘What’s happened to him, Father Jerome? Will he live?’

  ‘That is in the hands of Our Lord. The Saracens in their wickedness attacked on our first day out of Acre. Sir Ivo was struck from his horse and his leg was crushed. Several bones have been broken and it’s doubtful that he will ever walk – still less ride – again. He is at present in the grip of a serious fever. He’s to be removed today to the coast and put on board the next ship that sails for France. Lord Robert, will, I’m sure, agree that you should accompany him and see him safely home. You’ll take the child, of course, and the woman who cares for her.’ He paused, and drew a deep breath, as if gathering up the threads of a sermon. ‘Your punishment, Adam, is a severe one. You will never enter Jerusalem. You will never stand before the Holy Sepulchre and know that your sins have been washed clean. You will never enter into the special place in Paradise reserved for the mighty ones of the Lord.’

  Lord Robert had stood by, fuming, and seemed about to burst into passionate speech, but Father Jerome’s raised hand silenced him.

  ‘Oh, go away, Adam,’ Lord Robert said at last. ‘Just get out of here.’

  Ten minutes later, Adam was kneeling by the litter on which Sir Ivo lay, among dozens of other wounded men in a crude open-air hospital. The knight’s face was thin and pale with pain. Beads of sweat stood out on his waxy forehead. He stared at Adam, but his eyes quickly wandered away without showing any sign of recognition.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Adam whispered. ‘Please, Sir Ivo. I should have been here to help you.’

  Dr John came hurrying up.

  ‘Adam! Thank God you’re here. You foolish boy! I suppose you ran off after that child.’

  ‘Yes. And I brought her back,’ Adam said, standing up. ‘Sir Ivo looks bad, Dr John. Father Jerome says he’s to go home and I’m to go with him.’

  Dr John smiled.

  ‘I’m very relieved to hear it. He’ll need the most particular care. Stay with him here. We’ll be on the move in a moment. The ship’s waiting for you at the beach.’

  ‘I have to fetch Tibby,’ Adam said. ‘I’m taking her home.’

  He set off at a flying pace towards the wagons, where he knew that Joan would be with Tibby.

  It was a long moment before Joan grasped the meaning of Adam’s news.

  ‘What? We’re leaving? Now? Going home? Tell me I ain’t dreaming, Master Adam!’

  ‘You’re not, Joan. Be quick though. Fetch anything that’s yours and bring Tibby down to the beach.’

  ‘You mean it? Oh, blessed Mary and St Hunna! Thank you, thank you! I’ll just need to say goodbye to Susan, and Wat, and—’

  ‘Don’t take long, Joanie. Come at once if you don’t want to be left behind.’

  He left her and bounded back to the open-air infirmary. News had spread that the wounded were to be taken off in a ship, and a number of people, both Fortis men and those from other contingents, had come to say goodbye. One after another the remaining few knights of Fortis, then several squires and men-at-arms, came to touch Sir Ivo’s hand and wish him God speed. He turned glazed eyes on them and made no sign that he had heard.

  Adam hung back.

  No one will want to say goodbye to me, he thought. Anyway, I’m in disgrace.

  But to his surprise several of the squires came up to him and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.

  ‘Sorry you’re going,’ they said. ‘Safe journey.’ And one muttered, so that the others couldn’t hear, ‘I wish I was going home with you. I’ve had enough of this.’

  Roger Stepesoft rushed up just as Sir Ivo’s litter was being carefully lifted on to two pairs of strong shoulders.

  ‘When you get back to Ashton,’ he said breathlessly, ‘seek out my mother, will you? My girl’s with her, or should be. Tell her – tell them I’m well. Better tell ’em about Treue too. They’ll let his people know.’ He turned away briefly, then covered up by punching a hand into the air. ‘Fortis and Martel!’ he shouted. ‘The Holy Sepulchre!’

  He ran off to join the other men-at-arms.

  The sea was crowded with ships which had been sailing close in to the shore since the fall of Acre. As there was no jetty, the wounded, crying out with the pain of being moved, were being carried out to the hospital ship on the backs of soldiers.

  It was clear that it would half an hour or more before everyone could be safely stowed on board. Adam, who had walked beside Sir Ivo’s litter to the beach, waited impatiently. He was still unable to believe in the incredible turn his life had taken. He watched as Joan came hurrying down with Tibby perched on her hip, and smiled as she began at once to quarrel with the man who was to carry her to the ship.

  ‘Not like t
hat!’ she shouted, as he heaved her up over his shoulder. ‘Mind the child. Keep her dry, or you’ll hear me curse you!’

  The two of them were safe on board at last. Adam, still ashore, looked round, trying to imprint on his mind his last view of the Holy Land, and saw, some way off, a familiar figure. Jacques had appeared further along the beach. He was standing among a crowd of those with bandaged arms, heads and chests but who were still able to walk. He was holding up a twig, and as Adam sprang towards him with a cry of rage, Jacques’s silky voice became clearer and clearer.

  ‘A sovereign remedy!’ he was saying. ‘As you all know, my suffering dear ones, our cruel enemy – our devilish enemy, has crushed your limbs, and cracked open your bones, and stuck you full of arrows. But why suffer the torments of pain, the fear of infection and the agony of corrupted blood when the answer lies so close at hand – in my hand! Do you see this? A simple twig, I hear you say, such that any fool could pluck from a tree, but I tell you, my brothers, this . . .’

  Adam had pushed through to the front of the crowd. Jacques saw him and faltered, his face turning pale under its grime.

  ‘Don’t listen to him!’ Adam was scarlet with rage. ‘This man’s a cheat and a crook! I saw with my own eyes how he filled little bottles with common dirt from beside a stream in England and sold it as the dust of Jerusalem. That twig’s no more special than my thumb.’

  Jacques had recovered his composure.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ he cried. ‘Wounded heroes! This fine young man, the scion of a noble house – a bastard of that house admittedly – is out of his mind. A sad story. A head injury. Hit by a rock at the fall of Acre. And since then, his wits—’

  ‘He sold a Christian child to the slavers of the Saracens!’ roared Adam. ‘Watch out! He’s trying to escape!’

  Jacques had at last lost his nerve. Taking a few steps backwards, he turned and hared off down the beach, his long legs kicking up spurts of sand. Rage gave Adam speed, and he flew after him. Jacques looked round, saw that Adam was nearly on him, then bent down and scooped up a handful of sand, flinging it into Adam’s face. Adam faltered, pawing at his sand-filled eyes. Then he lunged forwards and caught the hem of Jacques’s cloak as the pedlar sprinted off again. The cloak fell off Jacques’s shoulders into Adam’s hands. With a howl, Jacques spun round and tried to snatch it from him.