by Angus Donald
‘I want you to play for us tomorrow night at a party I’m giving,’ said Robin when I found him. He was in a luxurious room filled with tall elegant pillars and flapping muslin drapes, which seemed to collect the sea breezes and cool even the hottest day. It was richly appointed with polished cedar-wood furniture, the floor covered with thick carpets and strewn with plump cushions. I almost did not recognise my master when I first saw him: Robin was dressed like a Saracen, in a long loose robe made of some light material, a curved dagger at his waist, his skin seemed to have been darkened with some kind of dye, his head was wrapped in a golden turban, his feet shod with silken slippers. I stared at him but managed to mumble something like: ‘Of course, sir, it would be a pleasure ...’ before I ran out of politeness.
‘Why on earth are you dressed in that ridiculous fashion?’ I finally burst out. I could not hold back my curiosity any longer. ‘And where have you been this past week?’
Robin laughed, and turned a full circle so that I could admire his Oriental finery. He appeared to be totally relaxed, happy and - something else. He had the indefinable air of a man who has just pulled off a great coup. ‘I thought you might be amused: in these clothes I am the mysterious and powerful merchant prince Rabin al-Hud, wealthy beyond measure, who wishes to enter the frankincense trade, buying the Food of the Gods to sell to the infidels. And I have just paid a delightful visit to some business acquaintances of Reuben’s in Gaza. We sailed back from there yesterday.’
‘Gaza?’ I said. He laughed again. I was mystified, but at least I could now understand the fancy get-up: as a Christian, there was no way he would be able to mingle with people in Gaza, far to the south, which was in Saracen hands. As I helped Robin to change out of his outlandish rig and into good Christian clothes - green woollen hose, a black tunic and a capacious green hood - he told me what he had been doing in Gaza, and what he planned to do to permanently solve his money troubles.
‘Frankincense is a valuable commodity, as I’m sure you know. It is burnt at every Mass in every major church in Christendom; so, as you can imagine, we use a lot of it. It is just the dried sap of some scrubby little trees that grow in a place called Al-Yaman, in the far south of the Arabian peninsula, which happens to be Reuben’s homeland. Now, the value of the incense increases the further it gets from its homeland. In Al-Yaman, you can buy a pound of frankincense for a few pennies; in England or France, it is worth more than its weight in gold.’ He stopped speaking while I pulled the black tunic over his head, and then he said: ‘Jesus, Alan, these clothes are so hot!’ and made me bring him a cup of watered wine, before continuing with his lecture.
‘For many hundreds of years, since before the birth of Christ himself, frankincense has been transported by camel train along the western coast of the Arabian peninsula, hundreds of dangerous miles through mountain and desert, arid plain and high pass, and for each step the camel takes the frankincense on its back becomes more valuable. Of course, taxes must be paid to the people whose land the camel train passes through, and there are the costs of hiring men to guard the train, and food and water, and supplies for everyone.
‘When the Romans came to Egypt, more than a thousand years ago, they hunted down and killed almost all the pirates in the Red Sea. Suddenly it became worthwhile, cheaper, safer, to transport the incense by water. And that is how it is done to this day. The ships’ valuable cargoes are loaded at Adan, carried up the coast in galleys or felluccas and are off-loaded in the Gulf of Aqaba. But they still need camel trains to take the frankincense across the Sinai Desert and up to Gaza. In his youth, Reuben used to work this route, as a guard on the camel trains. He knows the business backwards: the people involved, the routes, the timings of the joumeys ...’ Robin stopped himself, and a look of uncertainty crossed his face as if he might have said too much. Then he shrugged, and continued. ‘From great warehouses in Gaza, the frankincense was sold to Christian merchants, who transported it across the sea to Italy, to be distributed to churches all over Christendom. Are you following me?’ I inclined my head.
‘All that changed when we lost Jerusalem four years ago,’ Robin went on. ‘After that, the camel trains couldn’t stop in Gaza, as they had before; the buyers were gone. They could no longer meet their Christian merchant friends there and transact their business, as any Christian who showed his nose there would be imprisoned and quite possibly executed by the Saracens. The frankincense trains now have to come further north; more than a hundred, rocky, dry, bandit-infested miles north. Here, to Acre.’
I was slightly bemused by this lesson, and I must have looked puzzled, for Robin said, rather crossly: ‘Don’t you understand? Reuben and I went to Gaza to meet these frankincense traders. And we made them an offer. An offer they will find difficult to refuse. We offered to buy their entire frankincense stock and save them the expense and risk of having to camel-train it north through bandit-infested desert.’ It was the second time he had used that particular phrase. ‘It was Reuben’s scheme, and I think it’s quite inspired. It’s a good deal for them, and for us. Everybody is happy.’
‘What about these Christian merchants in Acre?’ I said. ‘Won’t they be angry that their frankincense is being bought by another merchant? That they are, in fact, being cut out of this trade altogether?’
‘I think it is written somewhere,’ said Robin, with just a little too much self-satisfaction, ‘that each soul must expect a little disappointment in this life, and he should try to profit by the experience,’ and with that, the matter was closed.
I was deliberately early for the dinner the next day and, finding a convenient corner in the luxurious dining hall, I sat and unobtrusively began to tune my vielle, and to think. My wrist was still not as supple as I would have liked, but it would suffice. I was very curious to see who Robin would be eating with that evening. I guessed Reuben would be a guest, as it was now clear why Reuben was so important for Robin’s plans in the Holy Land - plans that had not even the slightest connection with our avowed holy mission to rescue Jerusalem from the Saracens. Reuben was the key to Robin’s frankincense ploy because Reuben knew the trade, had worked on the camel trains, knew the right people for Robin to meet: I could now see clearly why Robin had sacrificed Ruth’s life in York, and saved Reuben’s, but the knowledge gave me no comfort. Robin had allowed a young girl to die to increase his chances of becoming wealthy. It was a chilling realisation, but somehow I was not as shocked as I should have been; it was more of a sinking feeling. I felt I was beginning to know the man that Robin truly was - not the shining, noble hero I had wished him to be, but a hard, ruthless man, who would do anything to protect himself and further his own cause. I also had the feeling that Robin had some other part of his frankincense plan that he was keeping to himself, and I dared not think what it might be.
I hadn’t had time to write any new pieces but Robin had given me to understand that I would just be playing soothing background music to entertain his guests, and possibly to prevent anyone from overhearing what was said. And so I merely ran through a few of Robin’s favourites by way of practice and waited for the guests to arrive.
The first to turn up was Reuben, looking lean and tired but in a new and expensively embroidered robe. I was glad that he had arrived first for there was something of great importance that I wanted to discuss with him: we spent a few minutes talking quietly in the music corner, and then, our mutual plans concluded, Reuben wandered away to find a servant and get himself something to drink. The next man to enter the hall was Robin’s guest, a thick-set man of medium height, whom I guessed was an Arab from his dark curly hair and intense eyes, but who wore Western-style tunic, hose and long sea-boots that came up to the top of his thighs. There was a definite salty air about him: from the way he rolled slightly as he walked, as if uncomfortable on dry land, to the heavy gold earrings in both ears, and the very business-like thick-bladed scimitar that rode on his hip. He ignored me, seated on my stool in the corner, but I was expecting to be invisible
that evening. However, the Arab sailor did greet Reuben with a wary friendliness. Then Robin was in the room, accompanied by two archers who I knew slightly, and who were immediately banished to guard the door. He was dressed once again in the long Saracen robe, but was bareheaded and without the dye darkening his skin.
I began to play ‘My Joy Summons Me’, singing softly to accompany myself. And Robin looked over at me and smiled: ‘Play a little more loudly, Alan, if you would be so good. I don’t believe our guest will have heard this very pleasant tune.’
Obediently, I began to play and sing with more force, and as a result, try as I might, I could only hear snatches of the conversation during the long meal that followed. Reuben, Robin and the sea-going man, whose name I learnt was Aziz, sat on large cushions on the floor around a wide low table. Arab servants entered from time to time with dishes of unusual looking foods - tiny morsels of meat in delicate pastry, dishes of stewed mutton and chicken, bread made with honey and dates, and spiced glazed pears - and each time they did the three men broke off their conversations and waited in silence until the serving men had left and they were alone once again.
The first thing I heard, after a long, quiet speech from Aziz, was Robin saying sharply: ‘Refused my offer? What do you mean, they refused? Don’t they know a profitable deal when it’s handed to them on a plate?’ He must have heard a break in the rhythm of the piece I was playing as I strained to listen because he gave me a hard look and then lowered his voice to continue the conversation.
He forgot himself again, perhaps a quarter of an hour later, and I hear him say to Reuben just as I came to the end of a jolly canso: ‘... I don’t care if they have taken on extra protection, hired more armed men, I can still teach them a damned good lesson. I can still make them fear for their profits this year.’
Courses came, were eaten and cleared away; and the servants had just brought in a sherbert - a magnificent dish of mountain snow, lemon juice and sugar, which had my own mouth watering - when I just caught the end of something that Reuben was saying to Aziz. ‘... so you will agree to carry it for us to Messina, at the price we struck before; I take it then that you have no problem with that?’
The meal finally came to an end after a couple of hours. And my newly mended right wrist was stiff and sore by time the sailor rose to his feet, and bowed courteously to Robin. Whatever business they had been discussing, I got the impression it had been satisfactorily concluded for all parties.
Robin and Reuben also rose and bowed, and as the sailor was leaving, I heard him say, quite clearly, and it was the first time I had heard his voice: ‘Until the rising of the full moon, then,’ before he strode out of the dining hall, out of Robin’s palace and away into the night.
Two nights later, Reuben and I stood behind a small door in the top room of a half-abandoned tower in the eastern part of Acre, near the royal apartments. It was as dark as a witch’s soul, only a dim light seeping in from a small arched window on the other side of the room, and I could only just make out the shape of my friend on the other side of the doorway, as he stood with his back to the cool stone, a foot-long freshly sharpened blade in his hand. I, too, had had my poniard sharpened, but it was sheathed, for although this was work for short blades, I needed both hands free. We had been waiting in silence for more than an hour, ears straining for the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the door.
Looking at the grey arched shape of the window in the blackness, I imagined that I could make out the faint outline on the sill of the thick rope that we had tied there when we first arrived in this room. It was our escape route; the knotted rope hung out of the window and dangled forty foot down to the stone flags of a small courtyard below, where our two horses were tied to an iron ring fixed to the wall. I was nervous; this was not battle, this was a murder we were planning; a cold-blooded execution. Our intended victim? Sir Richard Malbete, of course: a man who richly deserved to die, but Yet... Yet, in all honesty, I would have preferred to face him in open battle, rather than cutting him down like a thief in the dark.
Having said all that, having made my excuses, the plan was mine. And the key to it was my servant William. I had hesitated before involving him in a foul deed like this, unsure of whether he would be willing to help me commit murder and, worse, be willing to risk the wrath of Malbête — not to mention the King’s fury - if we failed. But when I told him that it was the Beast who had shot me with the crossbow in Cyprus, he was more than eager to help me take my revenge - he actually begged to be a part of it.
The plan rested on the King’s new fondness for Malbête, and Malbête’s desire to gain favour with his sovereign, and I had devised it when I came across a pile of the gorgeous tabards worn by the royal pages, which were awaiting a wash in the great steam-filled courtyard, draped with dripping sheets, where the serving maids did the royal laundry. I had been to visit Elise in the serving women’s quarters, because I had one very important question to ask her concerning Robin’s would-be murderer, and having had a satisfactory reply, I just happened to be passing the laundry when the mound of gorgeous red and gold cloth caught my eye. The plan came to me, fully formed, in a flash of inspiration, and after a quick check to see that nobody was watching, I stuffed a tabard inside my tunic - once a thief, always a thief, I muttered to myself - and sauntered away, buzzing with the excitement of a dangerous venture begun.
I had secured Reuben’s enthusiastic participation on the night of the secret dinner with the sailor Aziz, and two days later, William, dressed in a gorgeous red tabard embroidered with the lions of England, ventured into the Beast’s lair.
Sir Richard Malbête had occupied a small, richly furnished two-story house in the southern side of Acre, near the smaller harbour. It was a house of ill-repute, a brothel. He occupied it with a dozen or so of his men-at-arms, many bearing the marks of battle. They had been at the forefront of the attacks on Acre and had suffered many casualties in the terrible fighting before the city surrendered. They were lounging around the house’s central courtyard, drinking wine, fondling the women, a gaggle of sloe-eyed beauties, William told me later, when my servant dressed as a royal messenger walked unannounced into their presence. The men-at-arms sat up, straightened their dress, dismissed the women and Sir Richard Malbête was summoned from inside. William said that, despite the hazardous nature of his mission, he had to master an overwhelming urge to laugh when he gave Malbête the message, which purported to come from the King. The message was simple: that the King desired to meet Malbête in this room where Reuben and I now waited after Vespers that same evening. It was a meeting of a discreet nature, said William solemnly, and would Sir Richard be so good as to come alone. Malbête had agreed, and William had left unmolested, and now Reuben and I waited in the dark.
I heard footsteps outside the door, a man’s confident tread, and then a soft knock at the door and a voice saying. ‘Sire?’ The door opened and light from a pine torch spilled into the dark room. There was a tall figure in a scarlet and sky blue surcoat, looming in the doorway, his face in shadow, and I leapt forward and clamped my arms around his middle, trapping the man’s elbows against his body. He dropped the torch in his surprise and, my face buried in his chest, I twisted him out of the lit doorway and round into the darkness of the room. Reuben slammed the door shut. The man gave a short cry of terror and then Reuben was reaching over my back; his knife flashed once and stabbed into the side of the man’s neck, seeking the big pulsing vein there; the victim’s body jerked violently as the questing blade cut deeply into the soft skin, and a spray of blood drenched the top of my head and told me that Reuben had found his mark. I kicked the man’s legs from under him and released my arms, and he crashed to his knees, bubbling a cry of alarm and clutching his spurting neck. I drew my own poniard, intending to stab the bastard a dozen times, to make sure he was truly dead ...
Then the door burst open with a shattering crash, and bright light flooded the room. There were armed men spilling into the cham
ber all in scarlet and blue and I recognised the mocking, red-scarred face of Malbête at the back of the swarm of intruders. Someone swung a sword at me and I stopped the blow with the hilt of my poniard, twisted the blade free and buried it in his belly. He fell and I pulled the dagger out of his entangling guts and stepped back to give myself space.
‘Go, Alan, go,’ shouted Reuben, ‘the window.’ A second man lunged at him with a spear and he knocked the shaft aside with his long knife and neatly slid the blade deep on and into the man’s armpit, leaving him screaming with pain. Then my friend drew his scimitar, the fine metal coming out of the sheath with a whispering sigh, and he slashed once at another man-at-arms and sliced his face to the bone. I was about to draw my sword, but Reuben shouted again: ‘Go, Alan, go!’ and I hesitated no longer but sheathed my bloody poniard and leapt for the window. I heard a clash of steel behind me, and a shout, and I hurled myself out of the arch, only just catching the rope as I half-fell over the lintel, before climbing down the knots as swiftly as I could. I heard more screams and shouts above me, and again the fast clash of blades, and as I reached the bottom I looked up and saw with relief the thin form of Reuben, ten foot above me on the rope, climbing like a monkey. I saw a head poked out of the window, a dark silhouette, and saw a flash of steel at the ledge. Reuben was nearly with me, he had only ten feet more to climb, when suddenly, sickeningly, he fell; dropping like a hanged man to land with a crack of bone and a hideous scream on the stone-flagged floor of the courtyard. The rope, freshly cut, fell about his body. I had not been idle: I had untethered the horses and with many curses and a good deal of heaving, I managed to get Reuben on to the back of his mount. His left leg was snapped through the shin bone, the bone poking through the skin of his thin leg, and he was moaning, half-delirious in pain, but I got myself on to the back of Ghost and was about to lead Reuben’s mount away from that ill-fated place, when I heard a familiar, much-hated voice calling softly from the window above. And stopped dead, in spite of myself.