The White Cross

by Richard Masefield

  Is it likely he’d be willing to save lives by settling for a bloodless compromise agreed in secret with the King of France? Well, what would you imagine?

  Despite the onset of a fever, which improves his patience not at all – on his arrival Richard makes a series of deliberate moves. He declares an armistice. He has a carpeted divan installed in his pavilion. And then, deliberately excluding King Philippe and his kinsmen, he summons to its side the other Christian leaders – Count Henri of Toulouse, Robert of Leicester, Duke Hugh of Burgundy, Andrew de Chauvigni, Theobald de Blois and Bishop Hubert Walter – to seek their views on which of the two claimants, Guy or Conrad, is best qualified to wear the Latin crown. But when, sprawled like a potentate amongst his cushions, he hears from every mouth a firm intention to back Philippe’s man, Conrad, in place of his man, Guy – King Richard blasphemes on every intimate anatomy of Father, Son and Holy Ghost, and tells them all to go to Hell!

  Next day, he takes advantage of the truce to have his siege machines assembled for a final and victorious assault on Acre – then lays a snare to catch a Sultan.

  The Church of Rome absolves its followers from all oaths made to unbelievers. So when King Richard’s emissary bows before the Sultan Salahuddin Yussuf in his new camp of Shefa’ Amr – to tell him in mangled Arabic that his master cannot travel due to sickness – but to assure the Lord of Egypt and Damascus that he may come in perfect safety to treat in Richard’s tent for the lives of those within the city – to all intents and purposes he has his Christian fingers crossed behind his Christian back.

  But Allah’s Shadow on the Earth is far too old a jackal to be deceived by such an obvious trap and turns his tailbrush from its jaws.

  ‘It is a sad condition of our station that opposing kings may not meet at times of war without relinquishing their right to opposition,’ he declares. ‘There is a Christian saying, I believe, that a long spoon is needed to sup with the devil. Alas, I do not have one. But by all means let us be civilised. I will send my own physician to thy master, may God preserve him in his affliction. From what I hear of the malady, he suffers from a sailor’s diet, lacking khudhar-leaves and fruit, the condition that the Christians call scorbutus?’

  Eyeing him uncertainly, the emissary nods.

  ‘It may be then that something from our orchards will restore his health.’

  The Sultan claps his ringless hands. ‘Pack citrus, khushaf and fruit sherbets in snow from one of our ice-houses,’ he orders an obedient eunuch. ‘Our noble adversary, Richard Malik al-inkitar, hath need of them as soon as they may be conveyed.’

  But as the servant turns to do his bidding, his master is reminded of another matter.

  ‘The boy?’ He indicates the dark-skinned slave the King of England’s sent him as a gift. ‘He is entire and functions as a male?’

  ‘He does My Lord.’ On surer ground, the emissary risks an unctuous smile.

  ‘Unfortunate.’ The Sultan sighs. ‘So shall we let him choose whose service he prefers? King Rikhad’s – as a catamite with, shall we say a well-worked passage; but with all that God hath given him still in its proper place? Or in my service as an emasculatus – with the source of his discomfort and the attachments for participation both removed?’

  God’s Deputy bestows a look of fatherly compassion on the youth whose fate is in the balance. ‘As Allah lives, we all know, do we not, what men most value after life itself? Thou mayst return the boy with my felicitations.

  ‘And tell His Majesty,’ the Sultan adds with a fine sense of Kurdish irony, ‘that the son of Najmuddin Ayyub ascribes his own good health and that of his descendants to prayers performed five times a day – also to citrus fruit and the embrace of wives, both taken regularly but in moderation.’

  The spurned gift and diplomatic snub serve to spur King Richard into violent action, much as Salahuddin has expected. The final stages of the siege take longer and demand more Christian lives than he himself anticipates. But the crucial gate-tower finally collapses. The dust cloud clears. A white flag of surrender appears above the rubble, and four envoys in snowy turbans, servants of the emir Baha-uddin Karakush, climb through to offer terms.

  The troop detailed to guard King Richard’s gold pavilion, are kept busy for the best part of two days and one long night with the continual entrances and exits of his couriers, his secretaries and Christian allies. It is the time of khamsin, when hot winds from the southern deserts scorch the plain. Pullani water-carriers work ceaselessly with siphons to soak the outer fabric of the suffocating tent – to cool the bodies of the men inside, if not their tempers. Three are kings; and the Marquess Conrad, summoned from Tyre to help decide the fate of Acre, has made himself a prince. They shout. They pace. They all but lock the golden fleurons of their crowns, like rutting stags intent on gaining territory.

  Twice – once in daylight, once in darkness – they send an emissary to the Sultan’s camp. Constantly the Bagdad pigeons fly with messages from God’s Shadow in the hills to His defenders in the city, whilst those outside it wait to hear if the Moslem prisoners are to be spared or slaughtered.

  On July the 12th, the first morning following the feast day of Saint Benedict, the chain is lifted in the Moslem harbour, and the grizzled veteran commander, Conrad de Montferrat, enters Acre with his Italian bodyguards and a platoon of Tyrian soldiers, by means of a makeshift bridge thrown over the dry fosse. Expendable to Richard but trusted by King Philppe, his task is to accept the garrison’s surrender and prepare the city for re-occupation.

  Soon afterwards, the King of France’s criers ride through the camp to broadcast the armies’ orders.

  ‘Hear that the city of Saint Jean d’Acre has fallen, praise be to God! Henceforth it is forbidden by order of the Council of Christian Leaders for any man to strike the city walls, or to revile by word or deed the conquered infidels. The ransom for their lives, to be paid within four weeks of this day, is two hundred thousand bezants loaded onto forty camels, with a further forty thousand to be paid to Princess Isabella and the Count of Montferrat. Likewise the holy relic of the True Cross is to be restored, together with one thousand Christian prisoners of high station and five hundred of a lesser rank. Those companies to be housed in the city will be informed of it by their commanders after the hostages have left its precincts.’

  On the evening of the same day, the Moslem garrison of Acre files from the city to the compound that awaits them, in a long crocodile formation of six battalions led by the Egyptian eunuch, emir Baha-uddin Karakush ibn Shaddad.

  ‘Oh Most Merciful of the Merciful, Lord of the Weak,’ the Kurdish leader, al-Maktub, who leads the third battalion, commands his Imams to recite. ‘We care not if we are delivered into the hands of foes and strangers, provided that Thy wrath is not upon us!’

  King Richard, recovered from his fever, rises next morning to dress as he has dressed for his arrival in the Bay of Acre. Clad in the purple and the scarlet with a gold crown on his head, he rides into the city – as Alexander rode to claim it, and Caesar in his time – with all his chamberlains, his greyhounds and gyrfalcons, his pastry cooks and household troops in train to make a stately entrance. On either side as he trots by, long ranks of Christian soldiers cast their cloaks beneath his horse’s hooves. Or else kneel in the dust as if they’re witnessing the passage of a saint.

  The King of England’s bearing when he comes to climb the staircase of the emir’s palace is regal and benign. But when he strides into its marble courts to find them crowded with the followers of the French king’s cousin, Leopold of Babenberg, he becomes the beast with which he is most frequently compared. He gives a deafening roar; and shortly afterwards the shocking spectacle of Richard’s troops casting the Duke of Austria’s presumptuous eagle into the filthy moat, and hoisting their own king’s emblematic leopards in its place, is gleefully recorded in his annals.

  Duke Leopold’s own outrage at the insult is accepted as the reason for his swift departure from the Christian camp with the
remnants of his German forces. But when it comes to King Philippe’s return to France a fortnight later, none of the motives that the chronicles ascribe to him tell the whole story.

  ‘He professed that illness had been the cause of his pilgrimage and that he’d now fulfilled his vow,’ the Royal Itinerarium maintains. ‘The King said he was departing because he was sick. Well, say what you like, that’s what he said!’ is the troubadour Ambroise’s version of events. But the chronicle of Ralf de Diceto is closest to the truth, with: ‘Once the city had surrendered, the French King proposed to go home as if everything was now completed,’ reflecting as it does King Philippe’s earlier agreement with the Sultan Salahuddin and Conrad de Montferrat, to secure a French bridgehead in Outremer.

  In view of Conrad’s popularity and Isabella’s royal status, King Richard’s own next move is to propose a division of the Latin Kingdom, with de Montferrat in control of Tyre and all the northern ports, and Guy de Lusignan to rule in Acre and any land the Christians might succeed in capturing to the south. Half for France in other words and half for England – with in the English half (are you surprised?) the great prize of Jerusalem itself.

  It is a scheme which Philippe knows and Conrad knows and Sultan Salahuddin knows (but Richard stubbornly refuses to accept) is doomed to failure from the outset – assuming as it does that the crucesignati will not only agree to spending two more winters on the far shores of the Middle Sea, but will somehow gain the strength and funds to siege Jerusalem and hold it in the future against the full might of the Arabian empire.

  Meanwhile, King Philippe leaves hard on the heels of Leopold and his Imperial troops, to signal to the rest the folly of remaining, while at his camp at al-Kharruba the Sultan plays strategically for time. The French King sails by way of Tyre with twelve hundred of the Moslem captives, including the emir Baha-uddin Karakush. He’s heard that Richard slaughtered near eight hundred Saracens aboard a captured troop ship on its way to Acre, and thinks his hostages will be safest with the Marquess up in Tyre.

  Conrad de Montferrat agrees, and says he fears a dagger in his own back every time he’s close enough to hear King Richard laugh.

  The soft bell-music from the fold sings to the moon, brings out the stars. The sound of it is comforting when I think how we buried him, at dusk during the Moslem call to prayer – a kind of music too, that last long call to prayer before the mu’adhdhin were silenced.

  I am your man, Sir Garry, that’s the shape of it, an’ ever will be I daresay so long as God’s above the devil.

  We fetched Jos back to camp. John found the strength, as I could not, to deal with what was left of his poor head and tie it in his gory shirt to keep it with the body. I wouldn’t have him taken in a tumbrel with the others to the grave pits, but hired a camel-sledge to draw him to the grave. Old Guillemette was there to see him into it, dabbing with a kerchief at the streaming ruts and wrinkles of her face. For it was she who washed the blood away and fitted Jos into his grave-bag – she who handed me the silver coins she’d found sewn in his tunic.

  ‘Poor Tiddler, he’s in heaven with the angels now,’ she sobbed, ‘God bless ’is spotty little soul!’

  But that’s not where I saw him. By then I’d seen so many corpses, knew death and thought I knew the way it worked. How could I not at Acre? I wouldn’t have Jos thrown into the pit, but saw him lowered gently in the boots I bought for him in Lyons and he’d worn ever since.

  A lizard on a heap of soil beside the grave gave a quick jerk like something on a string, then disappeared from view. (So strange the things you see and you remember when your mind thinks it’s no room for aught but grief.) I listened with the rest to all to the rites of burial.

  I saw the sappers shovel in the lime and earth, but couldn’t think of Jos as just another body that would rot and stink. I couldn’t picture life without him. I couldn’t tell where he had gone or how his soul departed – couldn’t see him up in heaven dressed in white; couldn’t think of Jos, my Jos, as unable to react or swear, or bounce about and make a joke of his own lack of brain or loss of face.

  ‘Am I so…?’

  ‘ Obvious? No Sir, not by any means.’

  Would God appreciate the mischief in him? I couldn’t see that either.

  Behind us the Christian camp was celebrating victory. But I could not. Victoire, my chosen motto. How empty of all meaning it seemed now!

  Afterwards I bought a two-pound beeswax candle to light for Jos at the re-consecrated church of Saint Andrew inside the city walls – and did my best while it burned down to hope that it would bring him to salvation.

  But later, that was later and again I’ve jumped ahead…

  When it was first agreed that Bishop Walter’s troop would be housed in the city, one of his chaplains climbed onto a bloodstained tumbrel to broadcast His Grace’s orders.

  ‘Hear this, men,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll find quarters to the south of our King’s palace, and will be shown which streets are in your bounds. You will not loot or rape, but treat inhabitants with due respect. The families who house you will be issued with supplies. But gold, silver, jewels, fine fabrics and the like are now King’s Property, to be collected by his agents. Any man caught stealing or concealing valuables for his own profit will be severely dealt with. You may have heard that Musselmen revenge themselves on thieves by cutting off a hand.’ The chaplain smiled unpleasantly. ‘His Grace leaves you to guess what they’ll take off to punish rape. He looks to you to follow God’s Commandments, to be steady and keep discipline as Soldiers of the Cross.’

  ‘Sayin’ we can live with ’em but musn’t think of fittin’ ends. Is that what Bishop’s sayin’?’ a man behind me muttered. ‘So what the nation does ’e think we’re goin’ to do with ’em, play blindman’s buff?’

  ‘Only if they’re fearsome top and bottom, boy,’ another voice remarked. ‘Otherwhiles, fuck any that ye fancy as know where to put it, there’s the rule. So long as they’ve been married, it can’t ’ardly count as sin. As for the maidies – we’ll just ’ave to ask ’em nicely won’t we ’afore we take a dive. That’s all the bugger’s sayin’.’

  My own thoughts as we entered Acre, had been less concerned with theft or rape than with the simple competence of placing my right foot before my left. I managed it by limping on my heel to keep my swollen toes clear of the ground, but couldn’t manage to avoid the feet of all the others surging through the ruins of the gate.

  Each time they trod on me I yelped with pain, and would have fallen twice, but for John Hideman’s steady hand.

  Beyond the inner gate, a broken honeycomb of streets led north to where the King and Bishop Walter lodged in the old emir’s palace. Or south down to the harbour. Every street and alleyway was dusty, potholed, strewn with splintered wood and fallen stonework. Skinny, black-eyed urchins scrambled through the ruins or perched on mounds of rubble, to watch us pass. Flies clustered round the crevices between the stones to show where corpses lay beneath. The city’s dogs and cats, its rats, its pigeons and its sparrows had all been eaten in the siege. Only the flies still prospered in the blazing heat, to pester every living body and breed maggots in the dead ones.

  A supply sergeant we recognised set us to following a flock of fat-tailed sheep inside the gate on their last journey to the butchers. The folk on that road to the harbour had already been supplied, he said, and knew how many soldiers they must feed. ‘Then once ye’r billeted, ye’r free to fetch in what ye’ve left in camp.’

  He showed us on a rough map where our quarters lay.

  ‘How many to a house?’ I asked.

  ‘Depends.’

  The sergeant shrugged his chubby shoulders. ‘Some of ’em’ll take two dozen. Quartermaster’s ruled one sheep to feed six men. So they’ve ’ad four.’

  ‘Sounds friendly,’ John observed in careful French. ‘How many to a bed?’

  But by then the man was talking to Sir Rob de Pierpoint, who was behind us in the press. So, following the flock,
we took a road that that led in shallow steps toward the city harbour.

  ‘I’m sure that we’ll do very well, John,’ I said hardily. My function to pretend that all was for the best.

  ‘Aye, Sir Garry, well as ever.’ John Hideman’s to support me in the lie.

  I turned to him, the last of my brave manor squad, to show a cheerful smile – tripped on a step and fell, full-length amongst the sheep shit – flat on my cheerful face!

  Even with bruised knees and broken toes, it’s amazing how rapidly you can spring upright from a ridiculous position. (The cringing cur again, you see, who hated being mocked.) And I was on my feet and turning from the thoroughfare through a dilapidated arch, before the laughter even started.

  I suppose I should be grateful that John managed a straight face – asked how my foot was, handed me the cloak and bedding roll I’d left in my need to be elsewhere.

  ‘Well. I’m very well,’ I said as I limped off at breakneck speed. ‘Let’s take a squint down here then shall we? See if we can find a billet?’

  The arch was one of several buttressing the blank walls of houses, with a drain that reeked of sewage running through the alleyway between them. At the far end where the sun lit on a flaking, parchment-coloured wall, there was a wooden door. It was the only one. Which didn’t leave much choice.

  ‘We’ll try this one,’ I said, and knocked on it with with a clenched fist.

  Some doors in Acre had grills for looking through, but not this one. This one was blank, and there was no way that we could know what was beyond. But all doors lead to somewhere – and thinking back, I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t fallen on the steps and turned into that lane.

  If I had found another door in quite another place?

  As it was, it opened in the very moment I’d decided that it wouldn’t – first a crack and then a handsbreadth.

  We glimpsed a face, a pair of anxious eyes.

  ‘Madame…?’ Before I could say more, the door swung in to frame a second door beyond it. A magic trick. A frame within a frame. A view into a garden with green shrubs and a reflective pool – a view into another world!