The White Cross

by Richard Masefield

  ‘But only if we let him, Father. What honour is there in defeat? How often hast thou told me that God loves those who fight His cause with zeal, and fight to win. Give me command. Allow me to take but two divisions of mamluks to meet their armies as they land; strike down the kings before they ever reach the city. Wilt thou not trust me Father? The way to kill a serpent is to cut off its head, and I say I’m the man to do it!’

  With the balled fist of his right hand Al-Afdal punches his left palm. ‘Leaderless, without the loyalty they owe to kings, without pay from the royal coffers, is it not obvious what will happen? The Christian armies will disperse. They’ll melt like winter snow to leave us in possession of the city.’

  The Sultan sighs and thinks how much his son has still to learn. ‘Thy bravest thoughts are beaded on one string, Ali. I told King Guy when he was at my mercy at the Horns of Hattin that kings should never slay each other. As I answer to The One True God, I tell thee that we need both kings alive. Thou speakest of serpent’s heads. But consider the Greek fable of the Hydra. From each of its nine heads the monster had the power to grow two more. A man could sever three necks, only to find six more sprouting from their stumps. When he dealt with those, twelve more appeared – and so would the Christians multiply if their campaign should end in grievance. Be sure that spilt blood never sleeps. The armies they would mobilise against us would be legion if we made martyrs of the Christian kings.’

  Al-Afdal is still frowning, pimply face in hand. ‘But Acre’s only the beginning, Father. If we should spare the kings this time and Acre falls, how can we stop King Richard marching on al-Quds, the place he calls Jerusalem, to crown himself its king?’

  ‘By playing out a waiting game, Ali, to delay the fall of Acre for as long as we are able. By understanding there are more than two sides to a conflict and exploiting the kings’dislike of one another – to help the one decide he’s had enough of warfare, and convince the other that he cannot rule two kingdoms separated by an ocean – and by preserving Richard’s legend, to grant him enough success to send him home a hero, whilst weakening his army to the point that it lacks force or will to take al-Quds. In other words, my son, by using intellect, diplomacy and the minimum of violence.’

  The Sultan’s words are measured. ‘Time is on our side. We have it in the East, the Westerners do not. So long as we defeat the al-Firinjah they’ll return. The wiser way will be to give them something we can spare. We may not allow them to besiege the Holy City of al-Quds. But – I say this for thine ears alone – it may still suit us to award them a remnant of their petty kingdom. Give them a handful of seaports which deal in any case with traders of all faiths. Give them a taste of victory and a puppet king. Give access to eastern trade routes, a safe passage to the holy places for their pilgrims – and let the dogs bark as they will, my son. Our caravan will pass them by.’

  There is a further silence while the speaker pulls the silk tassel of a cushion through his fingers, contemplating the red embers in the brazier. ‘It’s held that a sound policy is like a strong tree, firmly rooted, yielding fruit in every season,’ he says reflectively. ‘Our policy must be to treat for lasting peace on our own terms and strive to make a better world for all who follow.’

  ‘Is it not written that he who mediates between men for a worthy purpose shall be the gainer by it.’ The pious Imam draws a look of irritation from the Sultan’s son. ‘Needless brutality is repugnant to The Lord of the Seven Heavens. I pray He will prolong thy life, Hakim.’

  ‘May Allah hear thy prayer.’ The Sultan smiles.

  ‘By the Lord of All Goodness, thy heart is as the ocean.’ The Imam casts his eyes up to a distant heaven, only to encounter the much closer goat-hair ceiling of the tent and cast them down again. ‘Thou wilt be praised, Sayyid, this day and to the end of time for thy fair judgement.’.

  ‘My Father, thy fame rests rather on thy victories,’ the disgruntled al-Afdal interrupts. ‘Thou hast fought all thy life and now is not the time to rest thy sword.’

  ‘I fear thou hast the right of it, Ali. That time is not yet with us, and for the present we must continue to delay the kings by force of arms,’ the Sultan adds with quiet regret. ‘God knows I’ve done my share of killing. But how powerful is a state whose people know only how to shed blood in the name of one faith or the other? All warfare is ugly, clumsy and destructive and evil comes of evil. Is it not possible that as Children of the Book we may still sink our differences and live in peace together?

  ‘As Salaamu ‘alaikum wa rahmatullah.’ He touches his breast, his lips and brow. ‘That is God’s benediction, is it not? The blessing we bestow on one another when we part? Indeed we must defend al-Quds. But I believe that lasting peace will be achieved by patience and negotiation, and not by endless bloodshed. “My words are the law,” the Holy Prophet held, “my actions are the way.”’

  The words of Sultan Salahuddin Yusuf ibn Ayyub reveal a crucial difference between his view of justice and that of the King of England. A difference which in course of time will decide the outcome of the Kings’ Croisade.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They’re skating on the meads where I saw rows of coloured tents the day before the tournament – oh let’s think, it must be fourteen, sixteen months ago? Hard to believe that so much time has passed.

  The children skate on mutton shin-bones, from here look like brown birds, fluffed-up in serge with waving woollen wings to flutter them across the ice – and even from this distance I can hear their cheerful little voices, shrieking with excitement. They have no thought of me and my business in the town, and wouldn’t care a jot about it if they had.

  What fun though to be a child again and make a game of winter weather! We had another fall last night. I caught the scent of it before it came, but was surprised still when I threw the shutters back this morning to see the fields and hillsides blanketed with snow. The view my window gave me of the world made white and new was magical, enchanted – until its cold chill reached me, and I suddenly recalled my brave intent to ride to Lewes.

  But was it brave, or foolish after all to say I’d come myself to pay the Jew for the last quarter of the year? God knows I’d not have promised it, but for Sir Hugh.

  We were the first from Haddertun to cut fresh tracks to the frozen millstream, on untrodden snow that squeaked underfoot. When I looked behind I saw the manor mantled in an ermine coat with black tail-streaks for windows – the downs as sugarloaves, the stream a murky serpent snaking through the white. The harsh beauty of the landscape caught my breath and frosted it in icy plumes before my face.

  There was that sense of quietness that always seems to come with snow, muffling the squeaks and crunches of the horses’ feet, when at Ram’s Combe we crossed the prints of other hooves and wheels. At Lewes the fishing nets looped from the willow spinneys by the river were all frozen, rimed with ice. But the way across the bridge into the town was slippery with trampled slush, and at the east gate we dismounted to lead our horses up the hill.

  I’ve sent Kempe on ahead to clear the way – follow with Nesta (not too close, in case his rounsey slips and falls), with our two sergeants at my back to shield me from attack. Hod would have come despite her dread of Azrelites, and wasn’t pleased to be told a third time I could manage with the steward.

  The payment’s safe enough with me. Heavens, I hardly know myself where we have sewn the pockets to the fox-fur lining of my cloak. And thank you very much, I’ve worked too hard to risk its loss to vagabonds and thieves! The last time I came myself to pay the interest on the loan was back in March, a bare fortnight after Garon rode away. In June I sent Kempe on his own. Then in September, quite against my wishes, Sir Hugh had made a point of carrying the dues to Lewes – determined as he ever has been to set me at a disadvantage.

  When he and Lady Constance came in July to see how I was managing the manor, I did my best to show them what a careful eye I’ve kept on industry and waste. I have the capabilities, Maman made sure of that
– and the morning after they arrived I showed My Lady all the looms and everything we’d woven. We solemnly inspected the bake ovens and the cheeses in the dairy, then toured the storerooms and the dyeing vats, the tanning sheds, the saltings and brewery. And ’though she made a point of brushing a stray cobweb from a chamber doorway – although she thought the fowls at breakfast over-cooked – the fact that she could find no more amiss than that, must prove me a success as Lady of the Manor. (Why wouldn’t it, when that is what I am?)

  But it’s not Lady Constance, it’s her wretched husband… What is it that so maddens me about that man? His voice? His oily looks? Or is it how he manages to catch me out so often and make me feel uneasy?

  At haymaking, when I climbed down the ladder backwards, looking like a peasant I’ve no doubt, he’d laughed so heartily that I’d no choice but to smile back. ‘I bid you welcome Sir.’ (About as welcome as a slap across the face with a wet herring!)

  ‘I take it you propose to stay?’ I added hastily to cover my mistake.

  ‘Take anything you like, my dear. I do at every opportunity.’

  And when he laughed again, I smiled again – and lost my chance again of keeping things between us on any kind of a safe footing.

  He was no better when he rode with me to view the kine, the standing corn and all our barn reserves. I’d swear he barely listened when I told him how much flour, how many bales of wool we’d sold, or when I listed all the rents and tithes that I could call to mind. (Kempe reads me all his latest dealings each Monday after breakfast, and my memory is excellent with figures).

  But – ‘Have you considered what you’ll do if our brave soldier of the cross dies of an excess of hard steel in Palestine?’ was what he asked me first. And determined that time to do nothing further to encourage any kind of inappropriate response, I turned away to stare across the fields and tell him woodenly that I knew what to believe.

  ‘Is that so, my dear? Then put it into words. I am all ears – or I would be if I didn’t know the answer.’

  ‘Liar! You can’t know,’ I thought. Then asked him how he did.

  ‘I see it printed in large characters across your charming face. I see that you believe, because you want to – not only that our Garon is alive, but that he will return to you a changed and better man.’

  I felt his eyes on me but wouldn’t meet them. ‘And if I should tell you that we’ll all end catching larks when the sky falls on us,’ he said cynically. ‘I don’t doubt, if you wanted to, you’d find a way to think that very probable as well.’

  Imagining he planned to tease me further, I moved a short way up the laine towards the fallow land at Shaws.

  ‘But even if against all likelihood he manages to cheat the worms, d’ye think that a young man obsessed with military prowess will ever leave off questing once he’s started on that course?’ Sir Hugh persisted. ‘How can I put this to you gently? The boy’s a perfect bonehead and you know it. Surely it has crossed your mind that if he lives, he is as like as not to gallop into service with some local baron who’ll employ him killing Saracens so long as they’re in plentiful supply.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

  ‘I think you do – and you may as well face facts, my dear. There’s scarce a dog’s chance he’ll return.’

  ‘I’ll face facts when I have to Sir, and not before,’ I told him haughtily. Then realising how thoroughly ill-bred that must sound, erred on the other side by becoming too polite.

  ‘Our barley is already ripening – see over there.’ I pointed to the West Field crop, fenced off against the cattle. ‘We’ll have the sickles out before the next moon if the weather holds.’

  ‘My dear child, cut the barley. Shock it, thresh it, grind the corn – do anything you like to pass the time. It makes no difference to the fact that in the end you’re bound to run to me for what you need. Now what d’ye say to that?’

  ‘Nothing that you’d want to hear,’ I told him rudely. (And wasn’t quite sure what he meant – although I don’t suppose that he was talking of the harvest, was he?) I knew that if I turned to look I’d find him grinning horridly.

  But I’m not a fool, however he might think it, and don’t believe that man is all that he pretends. I see that it amuses him to play with women’s feelings. But that’s not to say he likes us… I mean as people, rather than mere bodies. (It first struck me that he doesn’t much, when Agnès told me he was swiving little Edmay’s nurse behind his lady’s back – and I saw in his face that he despised the silly creature, even as he used her.)

  That was when the picture I now have of him began to come together – slowly like a piece of coloured stitchwork, thread by thread. A little clearer every time we meet. He acts as if there’s nothing in the world that discommodes him. But more than once I’ve heard a note bitterness in that light voice of his, and caught a glint, the flicker of a flame in his dark eyes – heard something hollow in his laugh, which first I took for simple knavery, but now begin to see as anger and frustration. Anger at his circumstance. Frustration with his dependence for position on a thin old woman who has borne him nothing but a daughter.

  Which means I’ve found a weakness in Sir Hugh de-Perfect Bernay!

  I took my chance that day out in West Field while he was giving his impression of a heartless charmer, to turn my mare’s head back toward the manor – and Nesta set off at a trot which with a little heelwork turned into a canter.

  ‘You will need help, and when you come for it, ma chère, be sure you’ll find me waiting.’ He shouted it after us to have the final word.

  ‘AS IF,’ I thought! Because I didn’t need his help, and wouldn’t trust the man to give it freely if I had.

  That was in July. But when in September Sir Hugh returned to warn us that the anti-Jewish riots in the eastern counties were in danger of infecting Sussex, and to suggest it was too great a risk for any Christian lady to trade openly with Jews – I was persuaded to allow him to take the usance for the quarter in my place. Even to thank him for the offer – like a fool!

  ‘I put it to the old man that with affairs so dangerously unsettled, he’d be lucky to retain his licence as a lender,’ Hugh dared to boast when he strolled in from Lewes four hours later, with six shillings of the twenty-six still in his pouch. ‘I told him that his rates were scandalous, and had but to lift my cloak to make him see the point.’

  He showed me the dagger in his belt just as he’d done to the poor moneylender. And when I informed him stiffly that I’d sworn an oath, could not in justice see Sir Garon’s debt defaulted, he’d laughed at me – again – that maddening, infuriating laugh!

  ‘Life doesn’t work like that,’ he said. ‘To make the best of it, my dear, you have to do – not what is seen as just by others, but just what’s needed to survive.’ (Although something in the way that he looked through me as he said it, gave me the feeling he was talking less of my life than his own.)

  A sharp wind’s blowing, north-east through the gaps between the houses. Despite the hood, my face is frozen – feels as if some devil’s sticking sharpened icicles into my chin. Thank God, I say, for warm boots and sheepskin lining. The shutters of the shops are closed. Nesta’s snorting though her whiskers at the drifting woodsmoke from the inn – and I hope to heavens that the Jew’s house has a brazier. A group of ragged destitutes huddle at the castle gate and all across the bridge, in hope of something warm to fill their bellies – withered faces, pinched with cold (the only mob, poor things, that we are likely to encounter!).

  We had to have a bullock killed at hay-homing for Lady Constance and Sir Hugh; a beast I’d hoped to keep back for the Lammas feast. Considering how drawn and ill she looks, the lady’s appetite surprised me. But I’ll be ready for her when she comes again at Christmastide, I am determined. If my Lady Constance thinks to find me unprepared for banqueting after the salt-fish fasts of Advent, then she will have to think again.

  Jésu, how the beggars gawp. (You’d think they’
d never seen a lady lead a horse through snow!)

  The sky looks yellowish and heavy. If there’s to be another fall we’d better be sure not to stay too long. The men have taken Nesta with Kempe’s palfrey to find shelter at the inn yard, blowing in their fists to keep them warm. I’ve told them I will have them whipped if they so much as wink at a town whore… But what on earth have those three ravens found to make them so aggressive? – grisly birds; they call them ‘gallows-crows’ – has someone left a dead cat in the street?

  They’ve swept the loose snow from the door sills, all but the Jew’s. But is he in? A row of icicles hang down across the entrance and I can’t see any smoke. We stamp our feet. Kempe’s rapping with his dagger hilt just as he did before.

  ‘Who’s there?’ (Old Jacob’s voice.)

  ‘It is the Lady of Haddertun!’ My words freeze in the air.

  ‘And remember Kempe,’ I whisper, ‘this time I’ll do the talking – the business is between the Jew and me.’ He’s frowning, has an unattractive habit of pushing out his lower lip to show his disapproval. But I’m giving him no option to refuse.

  The shuffling feet again – the grating lock, more snow, an endless fall of whirling flakes blotting out the roofs. The door swings back… He’s swathed in woollen shawls against the cold, all grey – long nose and rheumy eyes, a bleary creature peering from its burrow. And hard to see into the shuttered room after the glaring whiteness of the street.

  He greets us warmly nonetheless with, ‘How do you, Mistress? Master Kempe?

  But inside it’s chilly, odorous as a spice coffer, steeped in shadow, misted with a bluish haze.

  ‘I fear this chamber is too cold for you, My Lady.’ Old Jacob’s gesturing through all that drapery toward the rusty curtain I remember at the back. ‘If you can bear a little woodsmoke, we’ll be more comfortable within.’

  He holds the curtain back for us to pass behind the narrow staircase. A central fire glows through a fog of smoke in the small room beyond. His old wife, Sara, nods a greeting, hooks an iron pot to a tripod straddling the flames. It’s hard not to cough, and Kempe isn’t even trying. (Our clothes are going to reek of smoke!)