by K. M. Grant
At blackberry time the constable sent for her.
“Miss Ellie,” he said, smiling at her in a way she found absolutely repulsive. “You may have forgotten, but there is still trouble over the first Lady de Granville’s dowry. I am off north to see to things up there and shall be taking some knights with me. I will be gone for most of the autumn but will be back by Valentine’s Day next year. I shall leave fifty soldiers here for your protection. You may have met some of them. These are troubled times. By the way, I think Valentine’s Day a very appropriate day to get married. No point in putting off the inevitable any longer.”
Ellie was so relieved to hear that the constable was going that she almost smiled at him. He touched her arm, and she tried not to recoil. If de Scabious thought she was coming round to him, he might tell the soldiers they must at least be polite to her. She could not bring herself to say anything, but inclined her head slightly in a not unfriendly manner. When he rode away with a large retinue in his wake, she watched from an upper window.
It was Margery who, after the constable had been gone for six weeks or so, confirmed her suspicions that the trip up north was more than just a “maintenance” exercise. Poor Margery. Since the incident with Brother Ranulf, Ellie would not speak to her. At first, Margery didn’t care. Soon, so Margery thought, she, Margery, would be lording it over Ellie. Never mind being Eleanor Theodora de Barre, Margery would be just as grand when she was Mistress de Scabious. It was true, she knew, that the constable had said he was going to marry Ellie. But Margery knew what he was really up to. He would marry Ellie, repudiate her, keep her lands, then marry Margery instead. It stood to reason.
This had all been set firmly in Margery’s head until the night before the constable left. As a “leaving present,” as she termed it to herself, Margery had crept, uninvited, into de Scabious’s chamber. She had been sure that when she winked at the constable as she served the dinner, he had known exactly what she meant. They could not profess their passion in public, of course. But Margery knew. She just knew.
Or perhaps she didn’t. She had found the constable snoring on a chair in front of the fire. She tiptoed toward him and tickled his nose. First, he sneezed. Then, when Margery did it again, this time making what she thought were appropriately seductive noises, he opened his eyes, saw her face squashed up against his own, and bellowed, “Murder! Witches! Hags!” before throwing himself backward. The chair toppled over, and he and Margery had fallen into a heap together.
“Oh, Holy Virgin!” he panted when he had caught his breath.
“No, not the Holy Virgin, it’s me, it’s me,” Margery had cried, imploring him to be quiet. But when de Scabious caught sight of her coquettish grin as he was trapped beneath her, he bellowed again. “Shut your mouth, woman,” he begged. “And get out! Get out!”
“But I thought—”
“You thought what? That I really thought of you as a human being? You? Don’t make me laugh. Look at you. You are not a woman. You are a lump of dough! Now get out of here before I drop you out of the window into the midden, where you rightly belong.”
Margery, howling, had scrambled up and backed into the corner. “I thought we were to be married. I thought you liked me. I thought we were to take over this place.”
Quick as a flash de Scabious was on his feet. “If I ever discover you have repeated any of the conversations you have overheard, you miserable piece of dung, I will have you flayed alive and your skin turned into—into—into—into casing for sausages!”
Margery had shut her mouth and fled. When she reached the women’s quarters, she found a place in a corner and lay shivering. Occasionally she whimpered. Eventually she fell asleep, her mouth open. Her last waking thought was that if ever the opportunity presented itself, she would get her own back.
This had all been fermenting in Margery’s mind, and after the constable had ridden away, she watched Ellie, wondering how best to approach her. She was not sure how much Ellie knew. Was Ellie aware that the constable was intent on taking over the de Granville lands? Did she know that the constable was as certain as it was possible to be that Sir Thomas and his sons were dead? It took some time for Margery to decide that the time was right. Then catching sight of Ellie trying a new winter blanket on Sacramenta, she ventured to approach her.
Ellie stiffened. She could never forgive Margery for betraying her trust. Margery lumbered up to the horse, twisting her hands in her apron.
“Miss Ellie,” she said.
“I have nothing to say to you.” Ellie’s voice was sharp.
Margery tried once more, received the same response, and shuffled off. If Ellie was going to be so hoity-toity, well, she could just wait for de Scabious to arrive with dozens of soldiers and declare himself the new Count of Hartslove. Margery banged the pots in the kitchen until the cook shouted for her to find something else to do.
But the memory of de Scabious’s contempt put fire into Margery’s soul. She determined to try again. This time, she would start differently. So finding another opportunity, she approached Ellie once more. Ellie was brushing Sacramenta’s mane.
Margery walked quickly into the stable and began at once. “I know you don’t want to speak to me, Miss Eleanor,” she said. “But I am only doing my duty.” Ellie turned away. Margery kept going.
“Did you know that Constable de Scabious has heard on good authority from a man returning from the Holy Land that all the de Granvilles are dead?”
Ellie stood, absolutely motionless.
“I overheard him telling his friends. He has known since April. And he has gone north to secure the castles. After that he will come back here as Count of Hartslove. There, now I have told you everything I know.”
Ellie turned, her face ashen. She dropped her brush, grabbed Margery, and shook her. “Are you sure about all this? If I find you have been lying, I’ll have you flayed alive and your skin—”
“Turned into sausage casings. Yes. I know. But it is all true. I swear on this horse.”
It was Margery who caught Ellie as the girl swayed, her legs giving way underneath her. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” she whispered, sinking into the straw.
“I’ll get Old Nurse,” said Margery, suddenly feeling out of her depth. “I’ll just get Old Nurse.”
Ellie lay down beside Sacramenta. She could not take in what she had just been told. She closed her eyes and did not open them again until she could feel herself pillowed against the nurse’s many rolls of fat.
“Old Nurse,” she whispered, “they are dead. All of them. The constable knew, and he never told us.”
Old Nurse began to rock backward and forward.
“There, Miss Ellie. There, Miss Ellie,” she said stupidly. “What does the constable know?”
Ellie thumped Old Nurse with her fists and wept. “Is that all you can say?” she sobbed. “De Scabious does know. He heard it from a man at the coast. He has known since April, and he never told us.”
Old Nurse did not reply. She could think of nothing but Sir Thomas’s face as he left. “God rest his soul,” she muttered, rocking harder and harder, taking no more notice of Ellie’s pounding than of a fly. “God rest all their souls.”
They sat, Ellie and Old Nurse, with Sacramenta bending low over them, for some considerable time. Then Ellie got up.
“At least we can do one thing,” she said, her voice hard. “We can try to stop Constable de Scabious taking Hartslove. Sir Thomas’s brother, the bishop, might help us if we can get word to him.”
“And how will we do that?” asked Old Nurse. “Nobody from here will take a message to him from you without going to the constable first. They wouldn’t dare. And I can’t ride. As for that Margery—well, I wouldn’t trust her.”
Ellie thought for a moment. She looked at Sacramenta. “There is a way,” she said slowly. “I don’t know if it will work, but we might as well try.”
For half the night Ellie was up trying to remember how to write. Which way round were the bs and p
s? Her quill broke several times, but finally she managed to scribble what she hoped was a coherent message. It is not as elegant as the one I sent to Will with Brother Ranulf’s help, she thought regretfully. But that can’t be helped.
She wrapped it in an old silken petticoat. Old Nurse secured it with a needle and thread.
The next morning Ellie sent for Sacramenta. She would go for a ride, she said. Two knights immediately called for their horses to accompany her. One came to help her to mount, but was pushed out of the way by Old Nurse.
“I’ll help Miss Ellie this morning,” she said officiously, and stood blocking their view while Ellie slipped the silk envelope behind the girth. Then Old Nurse hitched her on board.
Sacramenta was fresh in the November winds. Ellie crossed the drawbridge and rode down through the jousting field, remembering with an aching heart the first time Hosanna had shown his mettle and how she had loved being perched in front of Sir Thomas. Now all that was at an end. She urged Sacramenta to canter. She must not allow herself to drown in memories. Not yet, anyway. The knights dawdled behind as Sacramenta flattened herself to gallop through the fallen leaves. Speed, ah! That would help to clear her mind. Sacramenta increased her pace, and they rushed faster and faster toward the river. As the mare’s hooves beat the ground Ellie suddenly thought she heard the echo of other hoofbeats beside her. She glanced round. The knights were only trotting. The second horse she could hear was galloping. She could see nothing, but Sacramenta, too, seemed to stretch out her nose as if in a race. The wind tugged at Ellie’s hair, and just for a moment she felt she was flying. There was a whisk of red beside her. “Hosanna?” The name resounded in her head. She could not tell if she spoke it aloud or not. But her invisible companion was not Hosanna. It was a flurry of leaves kicked up by Sacramenta.
Nevertheless, as the mare slowed down and Ellie chided herself for being so whimsical, she felt stronger.
Ellie’s plan went quite smoothly, for the knights were idle and she was determined. When she reached the river, she leaned forward and muttered into Sacramenta’s ear, “Go to the abbey! I don’t know if you understand, but you are the best hope we’ve got.” Then slipping her feet from the stirrups, she slid into the mud and smacked Sacramenta sharply on her rump. Sacramenta grunted with surprise, but, to Ellie’s relief, forded the river and was soon out of sight. By the time the knights caught up, Ellie had covered herself in mud. “The horse fell,” she shouted. “And now she has run off. I daresay she’ll come home eventually. Can one of you give me a ride before I catch my death of cold?”
By evening Sacramenta had not returned. However, since Ellie did not seem to be worried, the garrison knights, after consulting the sergeant, did not go to look for her and played dice instead. By the next morning, they had forgotten all about her.
20
Jaffa, 31 July 1192
The Christians trapped in the citadel at Jaffa could see Kamil and Hosanna below. The tall tower offered the only remaining hope of safety, and not much hope at that. As Kamil looked up, he could see the Saracens’ enemies leaning out to look down. He did not respond either to their taunts or their pleas. He was fully focused on his last task—taking the tower itself and forcing the Christians out. The marksmen he had sent had not been successful, and now Kamil thought more drastic action was required.
The slaughter in the city was by no means over, although the Saracens were in control. There were bodies piled on every street corner. Hosanna slipped with ease between groups of fighting enemies, avoiding stray arrows and crossbolts, bending and turning before Kamil even asked. The horse stepped neatly over the corpses that tumbled in the gutter. Kamil soon found himself engrossed in his work. As he ordered men to collect kindling (for the citadel might have to be fired) or defended himself from Christians on the run, he almost forgot that he and the horse were two different beings. Hosanna became an extension of his own legs and arms. They were as one.
However, as the day went on, something troubled Kamil. Something within him had changed. Even as he went about the business of war, which was his duty as a Muslim and a follower of Saladin, he was acutely conscious of the Christians’ blood spreading like a stain down Hosanna’s front legs. It stood out hideously against the horse’s natural color, and Kamil hated it. Often Kamil looked for a water trough and washed the blood off. Sometimes he even found himself avoiding killing Christian men altogether and called for soldiers to take them into the custody pens he once would not have bothered to create. He was nervous of seeing the knight with the teardrop mark again, but he never did.
By evening Kamil could see that nearly all the able-bodied Christians had reached the tower and were climbing farther and farther up. They refused to surrender, even though everybody knew that there could, in the end, be no other outcome. When the call for negotiations finally came, Kamil was not surprised to be asked to make an approach to Saladin on the Christians’ behalf. The message was clear. The Christians declared that if Richard’s army had not come to the aid of the city by three o’clock the following afternoon, August first, they would give themselves up.
Kamil galloped back to Saladin, who, having traveled more slowly, was now approaching Jaffa with the main body of the army. When he heard what Kamil had to say, he ordered his men to set up camp about half a mile from the city walls, where the orchards and gardens began.
“You have done well, Kamil,” he said. “The answer to the Christians is that they have until tomorrow, three o’clock—although much good may the delay do them.”
The Saracens inside Jaffa were jubilant. They had won. Despite Kamil urging caution, for he was too much a soldier to take anything for granted, his men hoisted their green flags and pennants on the city walls in anticipation of total victory. Why bother to wait? Kamil pushed down his misgivings. What harm could a few flags do? Besides, his men deserved to celebrate. Richard, who, the Saracen spies reported to Saladin, had arrived at Acre five days earlier, could never make it to Jaffa in time to rescue the Christian inhabitants. The city was surrounded.
Kamil rode out of the city and back to the camp. It felt good to dismount. He patted Hosanna, then handed him to a groom with instructions to feed him well. Kamil was exhausted. After sharing some dinner with the sultan, he found the tent allocated to him, undressed, and fell asleep.
Neither Saladin nor Kamil had reckoned on Richard’s fury. Two days after arriving at Acre, he received a message that Jaffa was under attack. Barely stopping to think, and leaving all his army’s horses behind, the king set sail from Acre with a handful of knights and men-at-arms. Leaving Jerusalem for another day was one thing, but Jaffa, which would be vital for supply lines to the Holy City, must be protected at all costs. Losing Jaffa would make any future attempts on Jerusalem almost impossible. Richard could not countenance it.
Gavin and William leaped on board ship with the king. At the last minute Hal scrambled up the gangplank, begging to be allowed to fight just once on this great crusade. He had no armor and only a small dagger, but he wanted to take his chances. William was reluctant, but Gavin, remembering the frustrations of his own youth, told William that he should let Hal come. Anyway, it was too late. The ship was already sailing, followed by a small flotilla of other boats, all crammed with knights and soldiers.
Standing in the prow as the king’s vessel traveled south hugging the coast, William strained to pick up any clue about what was happening inland. Contrary winds made their progress agonizingly slow. Richard fretted that a journey calculated to take two days with an accommodating wind was going to take at least three.
The king was right. It was not until nearly midnight of the Christians’ last night before surrender that the fleet reached Jaffa, and when the dawn broke, Richard’s heart sank. They were too late. The green flags mocked him. The king stamped and swore.
It was Gavin who, straining his eyes in the thin light, saw movement at the top of the tower. He watched with increasing amazement as a priest, waving wildly at the shi
p, jumped from the fortress into the sea. It was a massive leap. Unsure what this signified, Gavin indicated to the sailors that they should lower a rope and haul him in. The Christians were silent. What was going on inside the city?
The priest, gasping and his teeth chattering, demanded to see the king. Hal threw a blanket over him while Gavin fetched Richard.
“Sir,” said the priest, “I have come to tell you that Jaffa has not fallen completely to the Saracens. There are many of us, even knights still armed, taking refuge in the top of the citadel. If you can move quickly to get us out and can provide enough fighting men yourself, the city may yet be saved.”
Richard, sensing a glimmer of hope, asked the priest how many Saracens he thought were in the city and what their state of readiness was. The priest told of feasts half-eaten, of Saracen horses unsaddled, and of soldiers sleeping in the streets. Richard made up his mind at once. “We must attack from the beach, and we must do it now,” he said. “Every able-bodied man on this ship must wield a weapon.” He caught sight of Gavin. Are you ready?” he asked.
Gavin stiffened his back.
“I am ready, sire,” he said, pulling out his sword with his left hand.
“And you?” the king turned to Hal.
“Yes, sire.”
Richard smiled. “I am surrounded by brave men,” he said. “I shall not forget.”
William and Hal made sure Gavin was between them as they prepared to leap from the ship and make their way to the shore.
“Seems as good a time as any to try out my new skills for real,” Gavin shouted as all three plunged into the sea together. “Even a one-armed man and a groom are needed now!”
When they surfaced, Hal was already holding his dagger high above his head. “Hartslove and Hosanna!” he was shouting. Gavin and William, with terrified exhilaration, took up his cry.
The first Kamil knew of Richard’s arrival was when Muslim soldiers began pouring out of the city gates through which they had only recently poured in. He was woken by screams. People were no longer praising Allah, they were begging for his help. By the time he had pulled on his clothes, run out to find Hosanna, and was ready to fight, it was too late. The Saracen flags were being torn down. Jaffa was once again filled with fighting, and before breakfast the red cross on the white background was flying again, hoisted by a handful of men whose bravery verged on madness. Kamil, although he tried his best, was helpless to stop this reverse. His mind was numb with shock and incredulity as he found Saladin to give him the bad news himself.