by Norah Lofts
The Dominican said the Count had always been much impressed by what happened in Portugal in 1147 when Portugal was small, only just recovered from the Moors and having difficulty in holding them at bay. A small contingent of English Crusaders on their way to the Holy Land put in at Lisbon and the King of Portugal said to them, ‘Why go so far to fight the Infidel? Meet him here, on my doorstep.’ They had done so and Portugal had been Christian ever since.
Giving the one explanation himself, listening to Father Andreas give the other, the Count hugged his third reason. He did not intend to employ, on this venture, anyone likely at the end of it to remember an allegiance to the King of Castile. The English would fight, take their pay and go home.
Lord Robert asked his question.
‘Why should strict Moslems ask aid of Christians? They have Moorish neighbours in Granada. Why not appeal to them?’
‘I myself asked that,’ the Count said, swiftly. ‘Abdullah has sisters, all pretty, all clever and all married to kings. In Granada, in Marcia, even in Aquilleras. They would not allow their husbands to help rebels.’
Sir Stephen put his question in the form of a statement.
‘My lord, we are a muster of twenty-five men.’
‘It is enough. As you will hear.’ He used the staff again and now it was steady. The Count felt that his ordeal was past. Nobody had said that the thing was impossible, what questions had been asked showed that his proposal had been seriously considered. With easy confidence he revealed the details of the trick that he and Hassan ben Hassan had planned.
It was possible that if Zagelah had been held by Christians some knights would have demurred, for although things were changing and the sternest ideals of chivalry were on the wane, many men still regarded war as a kind of game, to be played according to the rules; but when you were fighting heathen who did not acknowledge Christ or his Virgin Mother, all rules could be ignored. It was also arguable that what the Count planned was a form of ambush and even Christians ambushed one another.
(Walter had told Henry about ambushes and said how much preferable for such an exercise archers were to mounted men. ‘Horses will snort and snuffle and jingle their harness. And then look at the space. You can hide twenty bowmen in a coppice that wouldn’t give cover for four like Arcol. I remember one time…’)
There were no demurs but, in case anyone had a doubt, Father Andreas proceeded to speak, with all the force of fanatic conviction, of the benefits which a Christian victory would confer upon the conquered. The would all be offered a chance of conversion and of baptism. When the knights’ work was done, his would begin. He was sincere; he had no doubt of his ability to convert even Hassanites; for there was so much that a strict Moslem had in common with a real Christian; regular hours of prayer, abstemiousness in the matters of food and drink, a disregard of possessions. He knew he would have one very tough problem since Christianity meant monogamy and the Prophet Mahomet allowed a man four wives. But monogamy, Father Andreas knew, would come easily to the next generation for the simple reason that once Zagelah was taken and very systematically looted one wife would be all that any man could afford.
The looting was to be controlled. There was to be no robbery, no rape. A fair distribution of confiscated property. And Zagelah as a whole, the city, the kingdom reaching down to Andara where the river Loja emptied itself into the Mediterranean was, for its size, very rich indeed. Zagelah specialised in a woven cloth of silk, fine as a cobweb and of colours nowhere to be matched. There was something about the water of the Loja river which allowed the dyers there to produce very subtle colours.
In the ears of a few of the knights the word now struck an echoing note. Concerned with headdresses; privileged women spoke of ‘my Zagelah.’ Sybilla had never owned a length of the filmy stuff; but Sir Godfrey, sitting there and listening, thought that he would take her a supply that would last her a lifetime, blue; harebell blue, bluebell blue, Canterbury-bell blue, cornflower blue.
Escalona, with everything explained said, ‘I leave it to you to think and talk over.’
There was a great deal of talk but at the end of it only one dissident—Sir Ralph Overton. As they stood about and muttered, balancing this with that, slightly fired by the word “Crusade” and the word “loot”, thinking that having come so far… and not oblivious to the fact that to refuse this extraordinary challenge might smack of cowardice, Sir Ralph spoke.
‘I’m having nothing to do with it. He tricked us once, saying tournament when he meant war. I’m going home. If he gives me the promised five hundred pounds, well and good. If not, maybe my sister has relented or my creditors think me dead.’
They all thought—Cynic! and remembered that they had never liked him much. In that muddled moment not one of them gave him his due and realised that it took courage of a sort to stand up, alone, and say, ‘My lord, I came to Escalon for a tourney. I now propose, with your permission, to go home.’
‘Sir Ralph, there is no question of permission. I want no pressed men.’
The others were of one mind for various reasons and Sir Godfrey, forced to speak for all, said, ‘My lord, we ride with you.’
‘Then we will drink to our enterprise. Bring in the wine!’
TEN
The English as a race are nothing if not practical,’ the Count said. ‘And twenty-four out of twenty-five regarded it as a practical plan.’
‘I confess,’ Father Andreas said, ‘that when Sir Ralph Overton withdrew, I feared others might follow.’
He looked back on the many acts of faith which had been made necessary; to continue recruiting in the face of such poor response; to embark with only a quarter of the number demanded; to face the Count with a mere handful. It had been a steady winnowing down, similar to that of Gideon, in the Old Testament story…
‘Hassan ben Hassan says that he will be ready on the thirteenth. Five days’ journey without over-tiring horse or man. I have already set in motion the establishment of camps. Have you chosen your companions?’
‘In my mind. I have not yet informed them. I think six—as a beginning. We do not wish to alarm Hassan until we are established.’
During this waiting time, Father Andeas had fasted and prayed and watched and selected and discarded. The Dominicans who were to form the spearhead of Christendom in Zagelah must be young, malleable yet strong and forceful—not a common combination. But he had six.
The Count would have enjoyed telling his fellow conspirators that Don Filipe’s casting of horoscopes in order to find the most fortunate date had ended with the prediction that February 13th was favourable. But this was no time for teasing; so they parted in amity, yet each concealing something from the other. Father Andreas did not reveal to the Count that, once made Archbishop of Zagelah, he was not going to rely upon gentle persuasion to make converts; when persuasion failed, force would be used. And the Count made no mention of the fact that to his original intention of snatching Abdullah’s kingdom and title an even more ambitious hope had now attached itself. Rumours reached him even in his self-imposed isolation and the latest was heady in the extreme. Prince Henry of Castile was seriously intending to divorce Blanche of Navarre, giving as grounds that they were impotent together. The Pope was likely to regard Henry’s petition favourably; sterile royal marriages led to squabbles about the succession. And if that happened…
In Navarre, the immensely wealthy, handsome young man who had never been thwarted in his life had been curtly told that only royal personages could marry princesses. His scheme to make himself royal—in title at least—had stemmed from a desire to be avenged upon the world, from a determination that his son should never suffer such humiliation. His attitude towards the child, noticed by some of the knights, resulted from his regarding him as an instrument for his ambition while feeling no affection for the product of a loveless marriage.
If, as now seemed possible, King Enrique I of Zagelah made suit to a Princess who had been discarded, all of his dreams might yet come t
rue. And he would breed other sons, happy, healthy, merry, loveable children.
That he had a wife still living was no cause for concern; an unwanted woman was easily disposed of.
Parting from Father Andreas, the Count found himself irresistibly drawn to Don Filipe’s apartments at the top of a tower in a remote part of the palace.
The old warlock, well aware of his worth, allowed himself a certain freedom of speech and manner. He gave a sigh of weariness and said:
‘My lord, I have nothing more to tell you.’
Unruffled, the Count said, ‘I have something to tell you, Don Filipe. You said that Zagelah would be taken by twenty-five of us. And you were right. One Englishman chose to go home.’
‘That is no news to me.’ Don Filipe’s voice was peevish. ‘He will not get far.’
‘No, he will not get far.’ There was a short silence and then Escalona said, ‘I know you dislike being asked to see but there is something I need to know.’
Don Filipe disliked being asked to use his gift because he had spent so many years answering fatuous questions, eking out an occasional bit of genuine second sight with inventions, lies, evasions. Until he had been taken under the wing of this very superstitious nobleman, he had led a precarious life as an itinerant fortune-teller, caster of horoscopes, finder of lost property, a diagnoser of mysterious ailments. He had never been able to stay long in one place—the Church disapproved of his kind; and he had always been poor because he worked only just enough to keep himself alive. He believed in his gift and knew that every invention, lie, evasion, frayed it slightly; it was like taking a length of Zagelah gauze and using it to mop a rough floor.
‘I worked out the date for you my lord; I saw a great city taken by twenty-five men. What more do you ask of me?’
‘What comes after?’
A great lord, a generous patron, but now almost on the level with country girls wanting to know if they would marry, whom they would marry. A man whose amiability was a mere veneer over arrogance, humble for once.
‘How long after, my lord?’ Useful to have some sort of guide, in case nothing came, though the inner eye had been more reliable since its owner had not been harried, forced to improvise and often hungry.
‘Whatever you see, Don Filipe.’
‘Very well, my lord. There may be nothing.’ At least to this patron it was possible to say such a thing without being called charlatan, wizard, warlock, scoundrel, heretic.
From amongst the clutter on the table, the old man dug out his ball of crystal, faintly clouded, faintly green. He moved his lamp a little, cupped the ball in his hands and stared.
‘Nothing new,’ he said at last. The his expression sharpened. ‘Yes! Wait. I can see your losses. Four in the open by the river… two in the gateway. And an eye will be lost. Another death, too, but of no importance… There, now it is gone. I see nothing.’ But he was pleased, in the circumstances, to have seen anything at all and to have seen it so clearly. He looked to his master for approval.
The Count, who believed in Don Filipe absolutely, said, ‘Interesting, only seven dead. You give me assurance. But what I want, Don Filipe, is some sight into the further future.’
‘It comes as it will, my lord.’
‘I know.’
That was a thing that endeared the Count of Escalona to his wizard; he respected the art and understood that a gift was a gift, not to be commanded or harnessed. Because of this, and the way in which he had been housed and fed, given the courtesy title of Don and protected from persecution, the old warlock, after some thought, said unwillingly, ‘There is another way, my lord. For you, if you wish, I will attempt it.’
‘I should be grateful.’
Don Filipe had tried it seldom; only three or four times; it was dangerous. Despite what priests might say there was nothing evil in practising a God-given gift; in his crystal, Filipe had done little more than to see, just as ordinary people saw their reflections in a puddle or a bucket of water; and in casting his horoscopes he was no more guilty of sin than any man studying a map. But this was different and he knew it.
There was a priest-like ritual about his preparations; he cleared a space on the marble-topped table, lit and fanned a small brazier to a glow, took from the back of a shelf a stoppered flask. Then he said, ‘Sit over there, my lord,’ and indicated a bench as far from the table as the size of the room allowed. ‘Do not speak. Do not lean forward. And do not be alarmed if I appear to be—overcome.’
From the flask he shook a little greyish-green powder into his palm, hesitated for a second and then spilled it on to the red charcoal. A dense, evil-smelling smoke arose and slowly formed the shape of a large mushroom, its stem rooted in the brazier, its cap level with Don Filipe’s eyes. He put his hands to the sides of his head, like the blinkers of a horse, and leaned forward. His whole posture was different from that he adopted when looking into the crystal, taut and wary.
The smoke hung motionless, keeping its shape, but the stench filled the room. The Count wished that he had bought a pomander ball. He wondered how Filipe could stay so close to it, could lean even nearer, staring, staring. He thought—He is doing this for me; he must be rewarded. But how? The only gold the old man cared about was that which he was trying to make from base metals.
Suddenly, Don Filipe said, ‘No!’ using the voice of one faced with something unbelievable or utterly unacceptable. He moved his right hand and attempted to cross himself but his head, deprived of half its support, fell forward, so that to the stench was added the smell of singeing hair. Escalona moved swiftly, lifted him—how light he was—and carried him to the window. Still holding the old man with his left arm, he threw open the window with his other hand. The night air, cool and fresh, streamed in.
Don Filipe looked dead. He had closed his eyes—against what sight?—and his lips were blue. Escalona thought, selfishly, He died without telling me! But when he fumbled and found the old man’s heart, it was beating, though feebly and, after a second or two, he took a gasping breath, enough to enable him to speak in a weak whisper. He said, ‘Such—great—slaughter.’ Then he said, ‘King…’ not as an isolated word but as though a name should have followed. It did not. After that word he was silent.
The Count remembered that the warlock had told him not to be alarmed and, unalarmed, he thought of wine as a restorative. There would be wine here for Don Filipe was always, by order, well served. In fact, on a separate small table, supper was laid out and there was wine in a jug and there was a cup. Escalona, who had been holding Don Filipe’s head against his knee, reached out for a huge book, pillowed him on that and crossed the room to the supper table.
In the short time that it took to fetch the wine, the old man died. And what he knew went with him. Just for a moment, Escalona forgot that and surprised himself by feeling some emotion. Over the hollow old chest he made the sign which had not been completed; then, crossing himself, he said, ‘God rest you in peace.’
He thought—He died in an attempt to serve me and he shall have a Christian burial no matter what Father Andreas and the rest of them may say.
Curiosity revived. Greatly regretting what had not been said, the Count examined the few words that had been spoken.
Such great slaughter. Well, naturally; Abdullah would have those about him who would fight fiercely, if only from self-interest—betrayed from within, they would be mown down. Escalona knew what he own loss would be, seven men. He also knew the Moors’ method of fighting. They depended upon speed. Wearing light armour or none, mounted on swift horses, they swooped to attack, slashing with their curved scimitars and yelling. Repulsed, they turned, as if in flight, and then turned again in their saddles and used their other weapon, the bow, discharging over their horses’ tails, arrows dipped in deadly poisons. But Hassan ben Hassan has sworn that there would be no poison on any arrow; no man awake in any of the frontier fortresses. If only the Count could arrive on the given day.
King. Spoken like that, inconclus
ively, it might well be interpreted as the dying man’s effort to give his sponsor his new title.
One word left unexplained, that horrified No! Perhaps he had seen, in the smoke, his own death.
The road along which the knights moved eastwards had been made by the Romans, to whom Hispania had been one province; to the Visigoths who had taken over from the Romans, the country had been one, also; and to the Moors, who had driven them out. The splintering up into small provinces and petty kingdoms had begun with the re-Conquest but, as late as the time when Escalona’s grandfather had set out to carve a place for himself with his sword, Escalona and Zagelah had been one and the road that linked them had been much used and kept in good repair. It ran for the first day through fertile and well-populated country, scattered with little villages and a few larger places where some mineral deposits had bred industry. By evening, when they halted at their first camp, the range of mountains which the first Count of Escalon had been content to regard as the limit to his conquest showed, smudgily, against the sky.
Next day the road climbed, gently but inexorably; the olive groves, the terraced vineyards, the sheep-loud pastures, fell away. They came to almost barren land, dotted with gorse bushes, here and there a stunted pine tree. Then all was rock, weathered red sandstone, the skeleton of the earth laid bare. But still the good road and another comfortable camp.
After that Sir Godfrey rode, not uneasily but alertly. The good road went on but now it was often a narrow defile between two heights, places where half a dozen determined men could hold up an army. Outside his profession his imagination was not lively but he could see that three or four well-aimed arrows or flung lances could throw their cavalcade into lethal confusion in such a place. Equally dangerous, to his mind, were the twists and turns which the road took in order to avoid sharp ascents or descents; how could you know what was just around a bend? And sometimes the road was merely a shelf with a steep wall of rock on the one hand and a drop into an abyss on the other.