The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  It would seem that after all they were to be saved.

  However, the party returned quickly, clearly in an ill temper.

  Perkyn sought out his friend, and came back with bad tidings. The local folk had seen the big ship enter the bay and assumed it was on a raid of sack and plunder. All had fled. There was no one left to do the repair and nobody on board who could. The job was too skilled, there were no tools, no forge in the ship.

  Perkyn let his words hang as Jared took in that they needed a blacksmith, then gave a slow wink.

  The pageboy was sent to his master with a message and before long Jared was summarily called aft.

  ‘You’re a smith?’ snapped the captain.

  ‘Aye. Jared of Hurnwych.’

  ‘Take a look and tell me what you think.’

  Jared was led to the side and shown the problem under the gaze of curious knights and ladies.

  The rudder was suspended by iron pins pivoting through a corresponding socket on the ship, two of them. The top socket had failed and the rudder hung perilously from the lower.

  He looked closer. It was an iron fitting, and simple – a flat bar turned back on itself and shaped to take the pin. It had split, releasing the pin to hang free.

  Jared turned back with a deep frown. ‘It can’t be repaired.’

  ‘Why not?’ blustered the captain.

  ‘You could try a fire-weld, but it’s split once and is weakened. It’s like to break again and at the wrong time.’

  ‘Then we’re lost!’

  ‘I didn’t say that. A new one is not impossible, but where’s my forge and anvil?’

  A tall, shaven-headed man stepped forward. ‘If I take you to one, can you make it?’

  Jared nodded; he was their only chance.

  ‘Captain, I’m to take this man to the port smithy where he’ll make use of the tools.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘And be guarded by my men. Good Jared, I’m Sir Nicholas Gayne. If you’re able to rescue us from this calamity you’ll be well rewarded.’

  Jared inspected the fitting closely, noting its measurements and how it was secured to the hull by through bolts. The heads would have to be filed away and the bolts punched clear to remove the old, and the new would require holes in the right place and a full set of bolts.

  ‘I can do it, but only if the smithy is well found, Sir Nicholas.’

  It was gratifying to note the numbers of anxious faces looking at him, waiting for his verdict.

  The boat set out for the shore, filled by knights and squires, armed and mailed. Jared of Hurnwych – his bodyguard!

  It was not a big village but it took a little while to find the smithy on the road out into the country.

  With a quick glance Jared was satisfied. It was a homely, well-kept place, tools and pincers in neat rows on the walls, a full-sized anvil in pride of place, and best of all, a charcoal fire still alight where the smith had abandoned it to run for the hills.

  ‘It will do. Send for my assistant, Perkyn,’ he commanded. He’d make sure that his friend would be involved in order to be rewarded as well.

  Rummaging around he found bar iron of approximately the right width and by the time a wide-eyed Perkyn arrived he had assembled his gear.

  ‘Wear that,’ he said, throwing him a leather apron. ‘You’re a smith’s apprentice for today!’

  Jared set him to the bellows, a big goatskin apparatus, and soon the fire was roaring with violet and blue-white at its core.

  First the bolt holes. There was a steel hole punch that made short work of producing matching holes in the white-hot iron. Then it was a swage to form the socket eye as the bar was brought around. After some deft persuasion with the hammer he had it trued and set up to full satisfaction.

  A final quenching for hardness and he had his new fitting.

  ‘Then we can sail?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Nicholas,’ Jared said with confidence.

  The knight fished about in his scrip and found silver, which he placed on the anvil with all respect and gratitude to the saviour blacksmith.

  CHAPTER 19

  Malta, AD 1291

  Malta was alive with activity. In its great harbour were scores of ships loading and discharging and many boats criss-crossing the sparkling sea. And ashore – tented camps under every standard known to the Christian world.

  Guglielmo di Venezia remained aloof, for its merchants had their business elsewhere: in Venice, where also some of its travellers would take pilgrim ships to the Holy Land. The knights, however, came on deck with their baggage and servants; they had reached their destination and left to join the great concourse ashore.

  There would be no delaying. Guglielmo would sail when they’d watered, north up the entire length of Italy to fabled Venice, the most prosperous city in the world.

  With the vessel still, Jared set to with needle and thread to repair his sclavein while he had the chance. He’d only been at work a short time when he was called aft.

  Sir Nicholas Gayne had returned on board and beckoned him over. ‘A word with you, Master Jared.’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘I have an offer for you, to your considerable advantage.

  ‘You are making pilgrimage to Jerusalem, a most worthy and sacred purpose. I know not your means, still less your reasons, but have you considered the cost in dues and tolls? For instance, the Venetians ask a hard price for their passage – fifty ducats, I shouldn’t wonder. The Mussulmen will demand their bribes, and where is your gold piece for entry to the Holy Sepulchre?’

  Jared inwardly flinched. Nobody had mentioned anything about this to him and if it was true there was no way he could raise this sort of money.

  ‘Offer, sire?’

  ‘Yes, a most handsome one, and won by your own skill. It is within my power to grant you a passage direct to the Holy Land from here, and not only that but a daily fee to relieve your needs. How say you?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Let me explain. I go to join the Knights Hospitallers sent by our liege lord, King Edward, on the holy crusade lately proclaimed by His Holiness. We sail tomorrow for the kingdom of Jerusalem at Acre but have been much embarrassed by the untimely passing of our armourer and smith. I have seen your valiant work, and should you agree to perform service for us in this office, we should be much beholden to you. I’m sure I needn’t make mention that this does not require you to take up arms …’

  ‘My pilgrimage—’

  ‘Nazareth is but eight leagues to the south and Jerusalem a little further. You will find time for the visit, I’m persuaded. And in the character of a Crusader and, of course, therefore spared taxes and vexations,’ he added smoothly.

  All for taking hammer to anvil once more. And in the greatest cause – when he returned to Hurnwych he would have such a tale to tell!

  ‘I shall have need of my apprentice.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then, My Lord, I’ll do it.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Acre, the Holy Land

  The Crusader warship was quite a different craft: strong, well armed and capacious, it had twin lateen masts and could carry horses and much war materiel. Built for one purpose it had no refinements or comforts but Jared was grateful for their snug space near the bow where they were not disturbed.

  They made Acre without incident in a convoy of eight ships, the largest with the unmistakeable three golden lions on red of the King of England, and they joined the many others lying off the small quay.

  The city was the biggest Jared had ever seen. Well sited on a north–south triangular peninsula and extending inland, it was protected on all three sides by formidable walls along its length with towers at strategic intervals. Its harbour, tucked well in on the eastern side, was out of range and untouchable. This Crusader stronghold would never be starved out in siege.

  Ashore, following the baggage train, he took in the most bizarre, curious and exciting place it was possible to imagine. He wended his
way through narrow streets packed with humanity, donkeys and street-sellers; exotic smells and human stink heavy on the air along with the babble of strange tongues.

  After all his trials he was at last in the Holy Land.

  Quarters were in a compound below the north wall next to the grand Hospitaller Fortress, a stone building of such size it made him stare. The wood-framed canvas beds in the dormitory were clean and comfortable and lofty ceilings promised a cool summer’s night.

  He was given chance to visit his workplace before supper, a building nearby surrounding a quadrangle. Along each side were forges and workshops, at least a dozen in number with a central administration.

  ‘William Kettle, quartermaster armourer of the Order.’ A grey-haired veteran looked up from his books at the introduction.

  ‘Jared of Hurnwych’.

  ‘Arms, escutcheons, mail …?’ the man grated.

  ‘Wha …?’

  ‘Right,’ Kettle said heavily. ‘You’re general smithing until you see your way clear to do a man’s work. Tell Baldovino, someone.’ He returned to his books.

  Baldovino of Pisa was the head smith and sized him up quickly. ‘With Gamel. Until I says so.’

  It was the end forge and the smallest. Jared was greeted by a large, red-cheeked man packing away some tools whose face split to a huge gap-toothed grin on seeing him.

  ‘All hail, fellow!’ he chortled, clapping Jared on the shoulder. ‘As you look a likely sword striker!’

  They met again for supper at the refectory.

  ‘A pilgrim paying his way? Where from, brother?’

  It did not take long to exchange particulars. Hugh Gamel of York, a child at the last crusade and left fatherless here. He recalled little of the country of his birth and had been in the service of the Knights Hospitallers since he could remember. Jared’s tale was less colourful and he was eager to know what was going on in this so much vaster canvas.

  Shrewd and knowledgeable, Hugh explained how over the years the Crusaders had lost ground to the Saracens; Jerusalem and the holy places of Christianity going piece by piece until, with the fall of Tripoli, the only significant holding left from the days of Richard the Lionheart was Acre itself.

  There had been a peace treaty in existence that allowed foreigners the right of pilgrimage to Jerusalem and this had worked well, with much trade and prosperity resulting. But recently there’d been an incident in Acre that had seen Mohammedan blood shed and the Sultan in Cairo had taken the opportunity to declare he would seize the city to punish the offenders. Fortunately he had died soon after and the alarm had subsided.

  As to the Ninth Crusade, the Kingdom of Jerusalem had shrunk to not much more than Acre. King Henry II prudently shifted offshore to Cyprus when the response to the pope’s proclamation had been niggardly in the face of squabbling among the major powers resulting from some kind of dynastic uproar in Sicily he didn’t understand. It was just as well the threat had died down for if not they’d be in for a hard time.

  ‘We’d be safe here, surely?’ Jared said, remembering the lofty walls.

  ‘You’d think so,’ Gamel agreed. ‘Inner and outer walls, twenty towers, our own water, can never be starved out.’

  He looked around furtively. ‘And I hold it to my heart that if we look like being overcome by the Saracens, the likes of we can hop in a boat and be gone, they can’t stop us!’

  CHAPTER 21

  The next day Jared began in the forge. It was straightforward enough: a repair to a massive gate hinge, horseshoes, a wheel rim, endless wire for chain mail. He set to with a will for this was what he did, and he knew his craft.

  Perkyn was put to work as well – moving from bellows duty to snatching pieces from the fire with pincers and handing them to Jared, clearly enjoying the sensation.

  In three days Gamel pronounced Jared worthy of more warlike employment. This turned out to be pike heads, a trivial task for one of his skills but requiring care at the tip-hardening.

  Other pieces came his way: the glaive, a blade on a pole for stabbing and with a wicked hook to bring down a rider, war hammers and many kinds of daggers. These were plain but lethal and intended for nothing more than crude battle hackery by the common soldier.

  An armourer’s craft was quite different to that of a blacksmith, however. To tackle the elegant and powerful weapons of the knight he must wait for his skills to develop.

  Jared saw around him some who specialised in helmets, with their beautifully finished curves and fitments, and others at the hauberk, the universal mail shirt. It was plain that those who tended to the knight’s accoutrements were at the pinnacle of the art and looked down on all others.

  He worked hard and learnt: the straightforward heat treating of a ploughshare was nothing compared to the delicate tempering required of a blade weapon and the forming of the awkward shapes of body armour at the anvil.

  And it was having an effect: no more bursts of hatred, and the tormenting dreams had virtually ceased, retreating into a dull glow of hurt at his core.

  After they’d taken their morning meal, Hugh muttered, ‘Has you heard, Jared? There’s a new sultan in Cairo – Khalil, I think his name is – and he’s saying as he’s going to see through what the old one wanted.’

  ‘You mean, have a go at Acre?’

  ‘A siege. He’s called a holy war and is marching against us. I’ve a feeling in my bones that very soon we’re going to be working all the hours God gives us.’

  ‘We’ve won before! Richard the Lionheart—’

  ‘Those days are old and gone, m’ friend. The Mohammedan is a brave and crafty enemy and there’s more of them than us. A lot more.’

  ‘We’ve got the Lord on our side.’

  ‘If that’s so, how is it we’re down to this one city? We’ve got some fine men in knight’s hall but are they enough?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Why, there’s your own Otho de Grandison sent by Edward Longshanks himself with a goodly number. Quite a few Teutonic Knights and of course our Grand Master of Hospitallers, Jean de Villiers – he’s a famous sword and he’s got Matthew de Clermont as marshal, a mighty fighter and … well, others.’

  Jared sensed defensiveness.

  ‘And men?’

  ‘Not so many, don’t know for sure. But we’ve plenty of French crossbows and so many Italians it took twenty-five galleys to bring ’em here. And not forgetting another five from Aragon, and …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Enough of this gab,’ Hugh finished testily, ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Rumour turned to reality in less than two weeks. Away to the south a faint dust cloud across a wide front became visible and as the hours passed it grew broader and more ominous.

  The Saracens were coming.

  Some in the city left. Merchants, the shiftless, the wealthy. It was an easy enough departure for the ones who could afford to as the Genoese and Venetian shippers were laying on immediate transport. For most, however, their life’s work and fortune was rooted in the city and to flee would mean its abandoning.

  Jared viewed these developments with trepidation. This was not his quarrel – he was a pilgrim, not a Crusader. There was every reason to make his retreat while he could.

  ‘What’s to do, Perkyn?’ he asked his loyal travelling companion.

  ‘Master, this you must say. For both of us.’

  Jared didn’t owe the Hospitallers service in the same way as a feudal lord, he was a paid servant and could quit at any time. But then again, was it right to deprive them of a valued artisan at their time of greatest need?

  He’d stay. Guiltily, he knew that the decision hung more on the fact that as Hugh had said, if it got sticky they could always get away by boat.

  The horde came into plain view – a confusing mass of soldiery on horseback and in columns along with hundreds of carts and followers in the rear. Sunlight glinted on weapons and armour in a stomach-tightening display – Jared’s first
sight of the dread panoply of war.

  As they neared, the gates of Acre were closed and barred. No one could enter or leave save by sea – a formal state of siege was now in effect.

  Silent figures in their thousands watched the great army approach and divide as it lay up against the landward walls of the city.

  It took shape: to the centre away on a rise was the blood-red tent of Sultan Khalil. The wings of the encirclement met the sea on each side, and beyond it making camp and preparing – out of range of archer and crossbows but in full sight – faces, movements; alien and terrifying.

  ‘We got a lot o’ work on,’ rumbled Kettle. ‘You all know what a siege means. First up, I’ll have a thousand crossbow bolts put by, before they start coming to us with their busted weapons. Then we’ll hear what the Grand Master wants.’

  They set to and laboured into the night, spurred on by what lay outside the walls. The heads of the bolt were socketed, requiring skilled work at the mandrel, while the square-sectioned tip had to be precisely matched on its sides, or the bolt would not fly true. Jared found it was harder than it looked and his first three attempts were scornfully rejected by Kettle.

  To his great satisfaction Perkyn was taught how to bring along bar iron to shape while idle youngsters were put to the bellows.

  In a rest break Jared went up on to the walls to see for himself.

  The siege line was established in depth, with hundreds of figures moving purposefully to and fro. A sea of tents, brazen pennants and banners everywhere and a ceaseless murmur of sound.

  The battlements were manned with sentinels standing silently. He saw that the rearing outer walls were matched by an equally sized inner wall. If the enemy scaled the outer they could be assailed from the safety of the inner, a near hopeless mission for even the bravest.