‘Give it to me,’ he spat. ‘Give it or I’ll kill you!’
But other people were running up now. Jacques, seeing a tide of angry men rolling up the beach towards him, gave a yell of rage and turned and ran again, disappearing a few seconds later round a curve of the beach.
Adam stood still only for a moment to watch him go before he rushed back to Sir Ivo. Not for anything would he be accused of desertion again.
He’ll bring his own destruction, he thought. God will punish him.
As he reached Sir Ivo’s litter, he heard his name being called. A messenger was pushing through the crowd of people on the beach, waving a document in his hand. Adam’s heart lurched. Had Lord Robert changed his mind? Was he to be hauled back to the army to face a hideous punishment? But there was no point in staying silent. Other people were pointing him out.
‘Here!’ he called out. ‘I’m Adam Fitz Guy.’
The messenger came up to him and put the roll of parchment in his hands.
‘You’re a tricky one,’ he said crossly. ‘I’ve been calling and calling you for the past many minutes.’
‘What’s this?’ Adam said, staring at the document. It was sealed with the hammer of Martel, that much he could see, but the letters that danced across it were a meaningless jumble of marks to him.
‘Your bond of freedom,’ the messenger said impatiently. ‘Your title to the place – what was it? Br – Bro—’
‘Brockwood.’
‘That’s it. You’re to take it to your lady when you get home.’
‘To Lady Ysabel?’
‘How should I know what her name is? Her seneschal will deal with it. The seal’s here, look. Mind it isn’t broken.’
Adam found he was still holding Jacques’s cloak. He put it down on the sand as he tucked the document securely inside his tunic. It felt almost hot against his skin.
My freedom, he thought. It’s my freedom. My future.
He bent to pick up Jacques’s cloak. It was heavier than he had expected. Running his hands over it, he felt bumps and hardnesses in the lining. He ripped a section open. Inside was the gleam of gold.
So that’s where he kept it, the money he cheated and lied for, Adam thought, almost bursting out into laughter. Quickly, he folded the cloak over, covering the tear to hide the coins from curious eyes. I’ll keep all for Tibby. He owes it to her, after what he’s done.
He tied the cloak round his waist, disliking the feel and smell of it, but still choking with laughter at the thought of the fury that Jacques must now be feeling.
That’s it. Justice. There is some justice after all.
Those who could be taken piggyback by single bearers had boarded the ship now and only the more seriously hurt, the men on litters, waited to be carried through the water. It was Sir Ivo’s turn at last.
‘Here, let me,’ Adam said, pushing aside one of the bearers.
He lifted the end of litter and stepped into the sea, shuddering as he felt the water suck at his feet, but taking a deep breath he marched on, deeper and deeper, till the little waves were lapping against his chest. Holding Sir Ivo high up, above his shoulders, he reached the ship at last, and other hands leaned down to pull them both on board.
In the courtyard of Dr Musa’s house in Jerusalem, three elderly men sat in the cool shade of a vine which had been trained over a trellis. A woman’s voice was calling an order to a maid from an inner room. A tray of beans was laid out to dry in the sun, and Suweida the mule stood half asleep in a stall in one corner, on the roof of which a flock of white doves cooed and strutted.
‘You can’t go back to the army, brother!’ one of the old men was saying. ‘At your age? It would kill you!’
‘Jacob’s right. Think of your health,’ the second chimed in. ‘And Leah. You’ve no idea how she suffers when you’re away from home.’
Dr Musa stretched out an arm and laid it contentedly along the carpet-covered bolster against which he was leaning.
‘There’s no need to persuade me. I’ve decided. My days of campaigning are over. I refuse to live in a tent, patch up hot-headed young men, eat army food and run about the countryside any longer. I shall stay quietly here at home, resume my old habits, see a few patients and study Torah, which, at my time of life, is surely the will of God.’ He paused. ‘But I’m bound to say that this wretched war is likely to drag on. Malek Richard is certain to besiege Jerusalem, and if he takes it—’
‘If that looks likely, I’ll pack up my family and move to Baghdad, or even down to Basra,’ interrupted his brother. ‘I won’t stay here to be slaughtered like an animal. You’d be a fool too if you stayed, Musa.’
Dr Musa sighed.
‘I won’t, of course, if it comes to that, but I don’t believe it will. Saladin may have lost Acre, but the man’s a marvel. I’ve watched him closely these past two years. I’ve seen him pick himself up from a deep depression, ride out at the head of his army, inspire them with his oratory, then go back to his tent and coax his allies into fighting on when the odds seem all against them, while all the time he’s half cramped over with the constant pains he suffers in his stomach. I tell you, if anyone can save Jerusalem, it’s our Sultan, peace be upon him.’
The other two muttered in agreement.
Salim, who had been sitting nearby, idly playing with one of Leah’s kittens, yawned and looked up at the sky to assess the time. The hours had dragged wearily by since he and the doctor had reached Jerusalem two weeks ago. Their arrival had caused something of a sensation. Leah, the doctor’s kind but fussy wife, had become almost ill with the joy of seeing her husband after so long an absence. There had been visits from the great men of Jerusalem, the governor, and the commander of the garrison, and every member of the Jewish community had called to pay their respects.
Salim, released from his duties, had spent hours exploring Jerusalem. On the very first day he had found his way to the vast stone platform that dominated the city. As he’d walked up the stone steps, he’d felt a strange expansion in his chest, as if his very heart was swelling. The Prophet himself had stood here. His feet had trodden on these stones. Allah had blessed this place.
Above him rose the dazzling golden Dome of the Rock, and beyond it the stone portals of the great Aqsa mosque. Salim had given his shoes to the guardian by the arch and walked across the huge courtyard. The smooth white stones were warm under his feet. There had been tears in his eyes.
This is the heart of it, he’d thought. This is the place of Islam. The barbarians will never take it from us again. Never, never again.
It was a long time since he’d felt inspired by such holy certainty, and been warmed by the desire for jihad. What was it the preacher in Acre had said, two long years ago?
The greater struggle. That was it. The true jihad. The inner fight against man’s lower nature. Against cowardice and selfishness.
Workmen were still busy repairing the facades of the mosque. The Crusaders, during their century-long occupation of Jerusalem, had turned the Dome into a church and used the mosque as a grain store. Crosses and blasphemous images of the Prophet Jesus and his mother had been erected everywhere. The jangle of bells had replaced the calm, reflective call to prayer. Gallons of rose-water had been needed to purify the place.
They’re on their way to take it again, Salim had thought with a rush of anger. They want to snatch it all back from us and trample on it again. What’s their holy sepulchre compared to this? I wouldn’t care if it was pulled down. It’s what they deserve.
The kitten fastened its sharp little teeth on his finger, bringing Salim suddenly back to the present in the doctor’s courtyard.
What am I doing here? he thought impatiently. I should be out there with the army. How can sidi Musa bear to stay here, doing nothing all the time, when those murderers are coming nearer every day?
He was about to jump up, to interrupt the old men and ask if there was an errand to run or a visit to make – anything to get him away – when he heard
the clatter of hooves and loud voices in the street outside. Someone knocked on the door. He limped across and opened it.
Six bay horses, magnificently caparisoned, were jostling nervously in the narrow street. Their riders, resplendent in scarlet brigandines, were dismounting.
‘Ismail!’ gasped Salim. ‘What are you doing here?’
Ismail took off his pointed helmet and tucked it under one arm, shaking out his long dark hair.
‘Kayf halak, little brother? How are you? What are we doing here? We’ve come for you, of course. The Sultan, may Allah bless him, is suffering from his stomach. He can’t live without the doctor, he says. You’re to come back with us.’
Salim’s heart kicked with joy at the thought of being out on campaign again, but his smile faded.
‘He won’t come. He keeps saying he’s too old and tired. It’s true too, Ismail. He looks bad. He needs to rest. Come and see him.’
One man stayed outside to hold the horses but the others, politely taking off their shoes by the door, followed Salim and Ismail into the courtyard. The doctor looked up, and his face fell in almost comical dismay when he saw them.
‘Rascal!’ he cried, struggling to sit up and push his turban straight at the same time. ‘Villain! I know what you want. You’ve come to disturb an old man, no more and no less. I won’t do it, I tell you. The answer’s no!’
Ismail grinned.
‘Salaam alaykum, doctor. I hope you’re well.’
‘Peace be to you too,’ sighed the doctor. ‘No, I’m very ill. I’m old and tired. My feet hurt. My bones ache. My digestion needs calm and the cooking of my wife.’
Dr Musa’s two guests rose to their feet.
‘We’ll leave you, Musa,’ Jacob said. He wagged a finger in his brother’s face. ‘Now mind you don’t weaken. Send the Sultan your abject apologies. Tell him what you like, but don’t go. Why don’t you send the boy in your place? He can’t idle his time away here forever. How does the verse go? The way of the lazy is strewn with thorns but the path of the industrious is a broad highway.’
Pleased with himself, he nodded his way to the door. Dr Musa was looking at Salim, a startled expression on his face. Ismail sat down under the vine beside the doctor, while the other Mamluks stayed at a courteous distance.
‘Ustadh,’ he began. ‘The Sultan’s stomach is tormenting him. All his old symptoms have returned. And every day Malek Richard – may Allah deprive him of life! – marches closer and closer to Jerusalem.’ He laid a wheedling hand on Dr Musa’s sleeve. ‘How can Saladin fight the barbarians with his stomach on fire like a brazier? Richard is a lion in cunning and strength. There’s no other Frank like him. We can’t beat him without Saladin, and he needs you. Come back with us, doctor. You’re a great man. I owe my life to you. Come back with us.’
Dr Musa’s eyes were still resting on Salim, who was standing beside Ismail, his face flushed with excitement.
‘The Sultan’s old symptoms have returned, you say?’ he said at last. ‘There’s no new trouble?’
‘No! It’s his stomach again. You should see how he suffers! I haven’t been close to him myself, naturally, but his servants talk about it all the time.’
‘And there’s nothing new? No weakness in the limbs, no flux, no vomiting?’
‘No no! The old trouble, that you were so clever in treating.’
‘Solomon is still with him?’ Dr Musa persisted.
‘The apothecary? Yes. But he doesn’t know the correct way of combining all the herbs. It was Salim who always did that. Salim did it perfectly, the Sultan’s servants said.’
The doctor slapped his hands triumphantly down on his knees.
‘Precisely, my dear boy! It’s Salim you need! I shall send him back with you. He can take the medicine chest and my poor old mule. He knows to perfection the dosage Saladin requires. Day after day he made it up for him. Salim, you’re to go back, do you here? No more lazing around in the fleshpots of Jerusalem! Don’t tell me you haven’t longed to be on the road again. You think I’m blind, is that it? You think I haven’t noticed how you yawn, and tick off the hours?’
Salim was staring at him, aghast.
‘I’m to go without you? To attend on Saladin? How can I? I don’t know anything! Who’d take any notice of me?’
‘Modesty!’ cried the doctor. ‘A great virtue. But in this case, misplaced. You’ll work with Solomon, my boy. Ismail, find a lodging with your men tonight. I’ll need the rest of the day to instruct Salim properly. Come back tomorrow morning. He’ll be ready then, I promise you. Leah! Ink! Parchment! Everything must be written down! The exact symptoms, precise prescriptions! All eventualities must be covered!’
Salim woke early the next morning, roused by the voice of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from the minaret nearby. He got up, rolled up his sleeping mat, struggled into his tunic and slipped out of the doctor’s house, following the shadowy figures of other worshippers making their way to the mosque.
Dr Musa and Leah were waiting for him when he came back. Leah, who had got up while it was still dark, had prepared a lavish farewell breakfast. She made Salim sit down and pressed on him boiled eggs, bowls of curd, bread, honey and cakes crusted with crushed thyme. He did his best, though he was too excited to feel hungry.
‘Enough!’ said the doctor at last, as Leah tried to press a third egg on Salim. ‘Do you want him to explode?’
Salim laughed and stood up. Now that the moment had come to leave Dr Musa, he felt a rush of love for the old man, and sadness at saying goodbye.
‘Sidi Musa,’ he began. ‘I—’
‘Wait!’ The doctor held up a commanding hand. ‘Leah, the – the things!’
‘Things? What things?’ she said. ‘Why do you never explain what you mean?’
He was waggling his eyebrows expressively towards the open door behind her. She understood, laughed and darted away. A moment later she was back with a fresh gown laid across her arms, a light goat-hair cloak and a long strip of white material that could only be a turban.
The doctor smiled delightedly at the expression on Salim’s face.
‘Well? What are you waiting for. Dress!’ he commanded.
‘But a – a turban?’ stammered Salim.
‘You think you can run around in a skullcap like a child forever?’ scoffed the doctor. ‘You want every lowly person – every ignoramus – to think that the trained assistant of the great Dr Musa is nothing but a boy? How old are you?’
‘Sixteen next month, sidi Musa.’
‘Sixteen! The age of a man! Put them on, Salim. Let’s see you. Put them on.’
Half an hour later, Salim was trotting fast down the steep road that led from Jerusalem, his escort of Mamluk cavalry surrounding him and Suweida, the medicine chest strapped to her back, running gamely behind. His stomach was churning with excitement and apprehension. What would the Sultan say when no Dr Musa came to him, but only his boy? What would he do if Saladin’s sickness grew worse, and the old remedies no longer worked?
The turban, neatly tied by Leah, felt odd and heavy on his head. It had already had its effect. Ismail, arriving as the last end was being tucked into place, had opened his eyes when he saw Salim dressed finely in the clothes of an adult.
‘Are you ready, brother?’ he said.
He didn’t call me ‘little’, Salim thought, straightening his back. Everything’s different now. It’s up to me. I’ve just got to do my best.
Dr Musa had accompanied the little troop to the gate of the city, and had stood there, his thumbs tucked into his belt, his eyes red and moist, as Salim had ridden away. Behind his small, untidy figure rose the great golden Dome of the Rock and the Aqsa mosque. Salim turned once to look at them before the cavalcade swept on over a hill and down the far side, and Jerusalem was lost to view.
A year passed, and the great crusade of Richard the Lionheart was all but over. Struggling through the heat, his men suffering from disease, hunger and thirst, and harassed all t
he way by Saladin’s troops, Richard never reached Jerusalem. The Franks turned back before they had even seen the Holy City, and in the autumn of 1192 they sailed for home.
Saladin did not have long to relish his victory. He died two years later, but famed for his chivalry, his name lived on, celebrated even by his enemies.
And what of Adam and Salim?
Skip forward ten more years, and Adam is the master of Brockwood. He manages his manor and its demesne well, with Tom Bate, Jennet’s father, as his right-hand man. He has married Margaret, the miller’s daughter, and there are three sons already chasing old Faithful’s puppies about and teasing Tibby, who, nearly twelve years old and very pretty, has all her mother’s warmth and liveliness and none of her father’s cold arrogance. Lord Robert himself keeps his distance from Brockwood. He spends much of his time away from Fortis, trying to ease himself into favour at court and increase his power and wealth. So far, he hasn’t had much success.
Sir Ivo is a frequent visitor to Brockwood. His fighting days are over but his faith burns as bright and sharp as ever. He and Adam reminisce, sometimes, about their days on Crusade, but when Sir Ivo talks of the glory of the cause and the wickedness of the infidel, Adam turns away and lapses into a long and thoughtful silence. He doesn’t want to think of the battles, the thrill of the charge, the clash of sword on shield and the slaying of the enemy. He remembers the kindness of a Jewish doctor and the friendship of a Muslim boy. He wonders if they’re still alive, and hopes with all his heart that they are.
Adam will never find out that Dr Musa died quietly, five years after Saladin saved Jerusalem from the Frankish invaders. He was reading in the courtyard of his home one afternoon, gave a little cry which no one heard, and when Leah came to bring him tea an hour later, she found that he had gone.
The news travelled swiftly to Damascus where Salim wept when he heard it. Years of study in Baghdad have completed his medical training and he is now a respected doctor. His father’s fortunes never recovered from the loss of Acre, and Ali, restless and moody, has not settled to the business. Salim looks after his family now. He loves living in the big house he has bought in Damascus. He loves Leila, his wife, and likes to spoil his two little daughters. He’s busy all the time with patients who flock to him with their ailments.
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