November 8th 2010 – At home
It was nice to get the keys to a flat he could call his own. Chloe had been great taking him in, and her dad had actually been pretty good. But still, there’s no place like home. And he just wanted some of his own space. Tom stretched out on the sofa and tried to get comfortable. His recovery was proceeding but at a slow and steady pace.
He felt a need to get back to some sort of work. Maybe he could wangle a desk job in the army. But he wasn’t sure he would be able to handle not going to fight when others were. Don’t be defeatist he told himself. Maybe there was a chance yet, to get back to active service.
Tom felt selfish for concentrating on his own problems when his daughter was so sick. But he felt that he needed something different to focus on. Chloe was constantly on edge. Every trip to the Oncology unit seemed to strip away a little bit more of her veneer of self-control. And there was another eight weeks left of treatment.
Then more scans and tests. It would be past Christmas, by the time they found out if the radiotherapy and chemotherapy had succeeded in shrinking the tumour. And poor Eve was getting weaker by the day.
It was a huge worry to both the little girl’s parents and to Chloe’s dad. But the two men were handling the pressure better. It was in the older man’s nature to retreat into his shell and just plough ahead with daily life. Tom guessed that the time at the front allowed him to compartmentalise worry. There was nothing that could be done until the treatment was finished. Just had to let the experts get on with it.
As he laid back and tried to relax, Tom had the BBC news channel playing in the background. It was showing the Pope’s visit. Benedict XVI was paying the first state papal visit to England since the Reformation. The commentator was assessing the Pope’s speeches. The papal words seemed to have hit a nerve with some of the media. Deploring the rise of aggressive secularism in modern Britain.
All well and good thought Tom, but what about the rise of aggressive Islam in Afghanistan. In his opinion no preacher on earth, was capable of reconciling all the religious and political forces in the 21st century.
It wasn’t the individuals. He’d met loads of Afghans, young and old. The vast majority seemed decent sorts. Just trying to make a way in the world for themselves and their families. In his opinion it was organised religion, with all its rituals and superstitions that was screwing everything up.
Fed up, he decided to do some unpacking. All his gear had been dumped on the floor of the rented flat when he’d moved in two days ago. All Tom had taken out was some boxers, socks and trainers. Some of his stuff was still at Chloe’s house. But the rest of his bags were confronting him in an unruly pile.
Rising a little painfully and leaning on the corner of the little table in the front room, Tom began the task of removing the items from the bags that had been brought from the hospital. Piles of underwear, jeans and shirts were quickly stacking up on the floor.
As Tom reached the bottom of the last bag, he felt a small object in the far corner. He remembered the small leather pouch he’d found beside his bed in the Afghan hospital. As he slumped back down on the sofa, he took a more careful look. It smelt of age. The leather was cracked and stained. He’d been in too much pain to properly examine it overseas and it hadn’t seemed important since. There had been too much time and effort recovering from his operations. And then he’d had to deal with this crap eating away at Eve.
June 1217 A.D. – Dover, England – Joining the Crusade
Allard finally arrived at Dover. The port was a hub of activity. The Dutch longboats stretched out in an endless chain disappearing out into the channel. There were many more than could easily be counted. The ships were gathered to carry men out to the Holy Land, and were rendezvousing in the English port prior to embarking on their arduous sea journey.
There were flotillas from Frisia, the Netherlands and the Rhineland, led by William Count of Holland and George Count of Weid. The force was huge, consisting of maybe two hundred and fifty ships. The largest could carry in excess of five hundred troops.
The recruiting officer for the convoy was Oliver Paderborn, a former scholar from Cologne Cathedral. Allard had tracked him down at his lodgings in the port and volunteered his services. Oliver was delighted to procure the services of a French Templar and ensured him of a place in the fleet.
It was the first time that Allard had set out on such a long voyage. He had enough difficulty dealing with the vagaries of the weather on the crossing from France to England. But he reassured himself that these were large ships, and that the route had been well travelled by many Crusaders before him.
May 1218 A.D. – By the Tigris
Yenovk’s master Badr al-Din Lu’lu’ had prospered over the last two decades. Although himself originally a Mamluk slave, he had risen through the political ranks to become an influential member of Mosul society. Lu’lu’ had been a key advisor to the last independent governor, or Atabeg of Mosul, Aslan Shah. Eight years ago, Lu’lu’ had been pivotal in convincing the Atabeg to acknowledge the authority of the Sultan al-Adil over Mosul. This had ensured that Shah remained in power under the Sultan’s protection.
Aslan Shah had suffered from virulent tuberculosis for several years and had made firm plans for his succession. His eldest son Izz al-Din Mas’ud al-Qahir was to become the new Atabeg of Mosul. As he was still a young man, Shah had arranged that Lu’lu’ should become chief of the army and the new ruler’s key advisor and representative. Having his master become such an important figure had helped greatly with Yenovk’s own career. He had obtained no little influence himself within the Mosul army.
That afternoon, Yenovk was hot. He was sitting in the salon, overlooking the central courtyard of his single storey stone house. It was not long after midday, but the sun was already beating down mercilessly from the cloudless, blue sky. He had that morning paid his daily visit to the bathhouse, but would love to return, to wash the stink of the day’s heat away.
Yenovk was a little nervous awaiting the arrival of the Atabeg’s representative. As an experienced Mamluk campaigner, he had a good idea what to expect. In return for his training, his work as a government advisor and his accommodation, Yenovk was expected to provide regular military service to his master. It had been three years since his last campaign, as part of a force that quelled a rebellion in western Iran. Yenovk was sure he was about to find out about his next.
He was not particularly concerned. Ever since Salah al-Din’s great victory, when he regained Jerusalem over twenty-five years ago, there had been a marked downturn in the level of conflict between the Franks and the warriors of Islam. Not that there wasn’t plenty of skirmishes.
Yenovk himself had been involved in five separate campaigns. But after Jerusalem, the level of ferocity, and the atrocities that accompanied that sort of combat, was greatly reduced. Even after Salah al-Din’s death the quieter times continued under his brother al-Adil, ‘the Just’. In the last ten years, there had been very little campaigning in the Holy Land from the Franks.
Rumours had reached Mosul, of the Westerners last campaign in the east. Instead of an attack on al-Adil’s forces around Jerusalem, the Infidels had been diverted to a campaign on Constantinople. Their forces had not moved much beyond there. The battles with the Franks had always been amongst his most bloody, and Yenovk was glad that the level of aggression from the Infidels was low.
As he waited for his visitor he walked to his bedroom and opened the wooden trunk in the corner. He reached down and felt for his conical helmet and the iron linked armour. It looked like it was time to wear his old friends again. They had saved his life on many occasions.
The process of raking over the memories of previous campaigns was interrupted by a noise from the front of the house. A servant ushered the guest in from the street onto the courtyard, where Yenovk joined him.
“As-salaamu ‘Alaykum”
The traditional greeting was offered and returned. The two men
exchanged kisses on the cheek and sat beneath a canopy, which had been set up to provide some shelter from the ferocity of the afternoon sun.
Tea was brought, which was offered to the visitor, and it was accepted with thanks. Before the subject of the meeting could be broached, Yenovk had hospitality prepared for his important guest. As they reclined on piles of pillows, a carpet was laid out on the floor between them.
The richly decorated material was laden with dishes of honeyed dates. Freshly gathered, they had been laid out for a day. Then the stones had been removed and the insides stuffed with peeled almonds. They’d been boiled over the fire in rose water, with added honey and saffron. Then when cold, the dates had been covered with sugar, ready for eating. As they started on the delicacy, the two men made small talk about previous battles.
The empty dishes were cleared from the carpet, as the main meals were ready to be brought from the kitchen. The servants had been asked to prepare dishes of lamb and chicken.
The lamb casserole, ibrahimiya, was brought in first. The meat had been boiled with onions in a steaming pot, which had contained a small cotton bag filled up with seasoning of ground coriander, ginger and pepper. Grape juice had been added to the final broth, and also a little sugar, to give a slight sweetening to the mixture.
The meal was laid down before the two men and the servants returned to the kitchen to fetch the chicken dish, shaljamiya. It consisted of regular strips of chicken breast, cooked with chickpeas, olive oil and onions. It was served with a dish piled with mashed turnip, to which had been added cheese, egg, milk and some shredded almonds.
The two friends ate together at a leisurely pace. Eventually the remains had been cleared away, and Yenovk’s guest leant back contentedly against his pile of pillows.
“Thank you for your hospitality. I think you can suspect the nature of my visit.”
Yenovk bent his head deferentially.
“The Infidel Franks are on the move again. We have word from our spies on Cyprus that a force is ready to attack. Egypt is the target.”
Yenovk was intrigued that the representative mentioned Egypt. It was a long way from the Tigris. Many days march. Besides, Egypt was ruled by the Sultan’s son al-Kamil, ‘the Perfect’. The Atabeg’s representative and Yenovk lived on the Tigris, part of Jazira that was ruled by another of the Sultan’s sons, al-Ashraf. The visitor continued.
“I see in your eyes that you are surprised by the mention of Egypt. However the esteemed Sultan has called on all his sons to provide forces to resist the invasion from the cursed Franks. It has been many years since such a large force has been threatened against us. The Sultan is gravely concerned.”
And so two weeks later, Yenovk found himself mounted and at the head of a small cavalry. Ready to join up with the rest of al-Ashraf’s troops, and to head to Egypt to help reinforce the city of Damietta.
December 3rd 2010 – Following the Trail
Tom was still relying on his stick to walk. He used his opposite hand to open the small metal gate and walked down the neatly manicured path, through the well-kept garden, towards the front door of the large Victorian semi-detached. He’d found the details of Charles Wilson, a local historian from the local council website. Tom had little to do until his next medical examination, and he’d decided to find out a little more about the old pouch.
The young soldier approached nervously and knocked quietly on the door. The guy was probably going to think he was a complete dick head. What did he know about history? A handful of lessons on the Second World War at school certainly didn’t make a scholar. And here he was about to ask an expert for advice!
Mr Wilson opened the door. He was a small neat man, with a slightly dishevelled, scholarly air. His eyes seemed drawn to Tom’s bad leg and the stick he was carrying. In the phone conversation when the appointment was arranged, Tom had been through the fact that he was in the Duke of Lancasters. But he hadn’t mentioned the injury. He wanted to go through the whole story of the leather pouch at one time.
“Mr Wilson? Thanks for seeing me, I hope I’m not wasting your time.”
The historian smiled.
“Please, call me Charles. Anything to help a member of our armed forces.”
Tom was ushered through to the neat front room. Charles poured two cups of tea from the pot on the table and he asked the soldier to begin.
The older man had a large yellow legal notepad on his lap. He made neat notes throughout the time Tom was describing his Afghanistan trip. But he made no comment. His eyes were lowered and focussed on his writing. As the young soldier finished, Charles finally looked up.
“And you have this article with you?”
Tom reached into his jacket pocket and produced the leather pouch. He handed it to the older man who received it almost reverentially. Mr Wilson placed it delicately on the table.
“Have you looked inside?”
Tom shrugged his shoulders.
“Yeh. Just a load of old papers. Can’t really read the writing. But whatever it’s written in, it ain’t English.”
Charles cautiously opened the pouch. Very slowly he lifted four individual pieces of parchment out and put them beside the leather wallet. He lifted one up and took a quick glance. The historian pursed his lips and folded his hands under his chin in front of him. He closed his eyes. Then leant back. He seemed to disappear, swallowed up by deep thought.
“Tom. At first glance this seems most interesting. Most interesting. Could I possibly trouble you to keep these papers for a few days?”
Tom was just glad not to have been laughed out on the spot. He agreed to come back at the weekend to see what Charles had discovered after a good read.
August 24 1218 A.D. Egypt – Defending the Citadel
Yenovk was part of a huge defensive force for the city of Damietta. From his vantage point, he could see the massed formation of invaders. There were tens of thousands of fully armed Frankish troops. They filled the plain from horizon to horizon. He knew that the army was out to capture and crush Damietta, as the start of a campaign to recapture Jerusalem itself.
It had been explained to all of the Islamist troops that they were guarding an extremely important city that controlled access to the principal branch of the river Nile. Yenovk knew that it had excellent natural defences. To the north and west, the river itself formed the city’s protection. To the south and east, lay marshy land that was next to impossible to cross.
The main danger to the city’s defenders was therefore an attack from the river. To guard against such an eventuality, the city had provided itself with an ingenious and robust defence mechanism, of which Yenovk was part.
A citadel had been built on an island, which was close to the opposite bank of the Nile from Damietta. A huge chain had been fixed from the walls of the city, to the ramparts of the citadel. This effectively blocked the Nile at that point. And also therefore, blocked any attack from the water.
For several months, the attackers had been stubbornly mounting raids on the citadel, to get at the fixed end of the chain. But Yenovk had seen that the tower had proved too strong and they had achieved no success.
On the morning of August 24th, 1218, Yenovk looked out over the river and expected another attack on the citadel by the Infidel invaders. He also expected the same result. He had confidence in the defences and the troops manning the position.
As he glanced over the vast expanse of water making up the Nile at this point, he glimpsed a strange sight in the distance. Far off down the river, a strange craft was approaching at a slow but steady pace. At first Yenovk couldn’t make any sense of what he could observe. It was like no other ship he could ever remember seeing. It was wider and seemed almost triangular in shape. As it got nearer, Yenovk could see why.
The vessel was actually two ships that had been tied securely together. This provided a base, on top of which had been constructed what seemed to Yenovk like a tall wooden tower. The height of this structure
when added to the deck of the ships, very nearly equalled that of the ramparts on the citadel. The contraption also held considerable numbers of heavily armed troops. As the water born siege tower approached the island opposite Damietta, Yenovk exchanged worried glances with his fellow defenders.
The strange device made its passage inexorably up the river. As it got closer, the defenders could see the platform at the top of the boat, much more clearly. There were about twenty men standing on the wooden construction. All remaining calm and quiet with drawn swords and shields. Their emblems were clearly visible. One in particular caught his eye. It was a vivid red cross on dirty white metal. The man next to Yenovk, grunted.
“Templars!”
The huge, strange hulk crept ever nearer to the fortress. There was silence amongst both the attackers on the ship and the defenders standing on top of the crenelated walls. The creaking of the boat’s timbers was the only sound that broke the quiet. Gradually it closed to within twenty yards of the tower.
The faces of the men on the attack platform could now be clearly observed. Their expressions conveyed fierce determination. Ladders were raised from the platform and readied to bridge the final gap to the walls. Suddenly a great cry went up from the Franks and the wooden ladders crashed down on the citadel’s defences. Archers released their arrows from the decks of both ships, desperately trying to keep the defenders under pressure.
Yenovk raised his circular shield to provide as much protection as he could from the onslaught of the Franks’ arrows. Peering cautiously from under the edge of the covering metal, he could see the first of the invaders race recklessly across the wooden ladder that was bridging the gap, between the strange looking boat and the walls of the tower.
It was one of the accursed Templars, red crossed shield in one hand, sword raised high in the other and a ferocious expression spread across his face. An arrow from one of the defenders caught him in the eye and he fell forward onto the first line of the Islamic men.
The Furness Secret Page 19