by Tony Roberts
“Oh don’t be so silly, Giselle!” Eleanor said. “Monique did it, so can you!”
Giselle though, just couldn’t. Casca suddenly tuned and went to the door. “Oh no!” he said hoarsely. “I can hear them coming; they say they’re going to rape all of you and hang me from the battlements!”
Giselle gibbered and climbed up, wriggling herself through the window and vanishing out of sight. Casca took the strain and lowered her, finding it a trial of strength. Eleanor regarded him with a severe expression. “You are a terrible liar, Rufus Longue,” she said.
“Aye but it got her going!” he laughed.
Eleanor went to scold him, but smiled instead. The rope went slack and Casca peered down. The two girls were standing there looking vulnerable. The rope was pulled up and Eleanor tied herself. After Giselle, Eleanor was no effort at all and in no time Casca saw her reach bottom and untie herself.
Casca swung round, backed out, clutching the rope, and began climbing down. His forearms ached and sweat beaded his brow. Sword fighting yes, throwing spears, yes. Horse riding even, yes. Climbing down fifty feet of rock? No. He wasn’t built for it. His feet scrabbled on the outcrops and a few loose stones were dislodged and went bounding down.
The noise attracted the attention of a guard walking the outer rampart and he looked round from his vigil of scanning the countryside. He wasn’t there to look into the castle, but the noise he’d heard was unusual. His eyes took a little time to see into the deep shadows the quarter moon made, but when he saw what was happening, his jaw dropped. Merde! He clattered along the battlements to the nearest tower, shouting for the guard sergeant.
Casca heard it and cursed, and he moved faster, his legs flailing wildly. He made it, but with a nice collection of bruises. The three women stood waiting as he wiped his sweaty hands on his tunic and he nodded towards the stables, standing next to the gatehouse. “C’mon, let’s get the horses.”
They made their way across the courtyard but a guard came running out of the gatehouse, shouting an alert. Casca cut him across his midriff and the guard sank to the ground, clutching his spilling guts. Reaching the stables Casca kicked open the first three stalls and threw on bridles and saddles as fast as he could.
“Guards coming!” Eleanor warned, her voice catching.
Casca knew there was only one way this could work now. Cursing his luck, he threw the reins into the women’s hands. “Guillaume is waiting to the north east. Go there after I open the drawbridge. Don’t wait for me.”
He ran towards the approaching guards, who were running out of the guardhouse, and slashed at them madly. One put his spear up to protect his head but the eternal mercenary’s blade smashed through the spear shaft and his neck too, almost decapitating him. The second tried to cut Casca across the head with his sword but Casca dodged to the right. Eleanor and the two servants got onto their horses and rode for the tunnel. The two guards stepped back from the horses in fright and Casca knocked both over, stamping on one’s head and kicking the other in the face. Both were temporarily out of action and the scarred warrior ran into the guardroom and up the spiral staircase at the rear.
The first floor was where the drawbridge levers were and he ran to them, throwing them down. The drawbridge fell with a mighty clatter and the horses charged forward and across it to safety.
“You fucking traitorous bastard,” the warder said from behind Casca as he watched the horses gallop across the bridge and away to freedom.
Casca turned to see the warder and six guards facing him, hatred and disgust on their faces. “Tough,” Casca replied, knowing he was in deep shit, “some charitable people you are. Fine example of Christians.”
The warder snarled and waved two crossbowmen forward. “You will be kept here till the Lord Reynauld returns. I pity you then!”
Casca was disarmed and roughly hauled out of the room, but as he passed the warder, he received a solid blow to the face, stunning him. Whatever Reynauld would do when he returned, Casca was certain it wouldn’t be pleasant. He’d been in some bad fixes in the past, but this was one of the worst.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Casca spent a few days in a very dark and cold cell, visited by no one and unfed. He found thirst the worst but down this deep there was no sunlight and water dripped from some source giving a small amount of sustenance. Even so he was feeling dehydrated when at last footsteps were heard and the grilled door was flung open and torches illuminated the cell.
Casca screwed his eyes shut against the unaccustomed glare as he was hauled up roughly and dragged out and up to the living area. He wasn’t allowed to walk, each time he tried he was kicked from behind and so he was dragged unceremoniously by two Templars into an immense chamber full of the smell of roasted goat.
He was flung to the hard stone floor at the foot of some huge table and a pair of mail-clad legs appeared in front of him. “So,” a deep voice said, a hard edge of anger discernible, “this is the turd who killed my men and allowed that bitch to escape.”
Casca groaned and got to his hands and knees. One of the mailed feet swung and caught him in the ribs, sending him crashing sideways against a chair which overturned with a clatter. “Fucking bastard!” Reynauld screamed, spittle dribbling down his beard. “I should disembowel you!”
Casca gasped and clutched his ribs. One had to be broken; it felt like it.
“Get him in that chair,” Reynauld snapped.
Rough hands pulled Casca up and deposited him not too gently into the chair. The rib sent spears of agony jabbing into his side. He looked up, face twisted in pain and saw a barrel-chested bear of a man glaring at him from the other side of the table. “Who sent you, you little shit?”
“De Beaucaire,” Casca gasped, sweat pouring out over his face. “He sends his compliments.”
“Does he, by fuck?” Reynauld screamed, eyes bulging. “Well, you lying swine, he’s dying in Tiberias so don’t give me shit about him sending you! My agent stabbed him back in Beteras, so he could hardly tell you to get his slut of a daughter, could he?”
Casca shook his head. The pain was excruciating. He could hardly think, it was that bad, and beneath his filthy tunic he could feel the rib reknitting, healing. His ribcage would be all colors of the rainbow he knew, but the break would be healed within a day.
Reynauld turned to Meurtrier who was standing silently by the fireplace. “He bettered you, I hear?”
“Luck. Used the practice frame to distract me. I had him. He fights dirty.”
The Lord of Kerak looked at the man he thought unbeatable. Then at the warden who stood there nervously, fiddling with his hose. “Let me get this straight; this man here,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of Casca, “rides into my castle alone – alone! – betters two guards in a fight, and then you in single combat,” he glares at Meurtrier, “then kills four guards, releases three women, lowers them down a fifty foot drop, does the same himself, harnesses up three horses, kills more guards, lowers the drawbridge and lets the women escape.”
The warden nodded miserably.
Reynauld planted his fists on his hips. “What the fuck does he do for an encore?”
Silence.
The Lord of Kerak snorted without amusement and silently made his way round to stand over Casca. Two guards hovered close by in case anything untoward occurred. Reynauld grabbed Casca by the collar. “You are Rufus Longue? I’ve never heard of you! You say de Beaucaire sent you? You lie! I say you’re a filthy spy, sent to spy on me.”
Casca groaned. “No, I’m a soldier.”
“I’ve had enough of your lies! You say you’re a soldier of Christ?”
Casca nodded weakly, trying not to throw up. Or, if he was going to, he’d damn well try to do it on Reynauld.
Reynauld released him and snapped his fingers. “Another lie.” Three men entered the room, two carrying the third. The carried man was in a terrible way, limply hanging in the others’ arms, a jagged wound all across his bare chest, oozing black
and green liquid through a sodden bandage. The fact he was still alive was a miracle and it was clear he wasn’t long for this world. Casca recognized him, and unfortunately, it was mutual.
It was the captain of the guard whom Casca had confronted a few days back while still in the employ of Ben Asid. Reynauld pointed at Casca. “You say this is the man who was part of the Muslim caravan guard?”
The captain nodded, his breath whistling faintly. Reynauld snarled and whirled on Casca. “A dirty stinking Muslim spy!”
Casca was done for, that was certain. Reynauld was roaring in rage, pacing up and down the chamber. “Bastard Saracen agent! You’re going to die you filthy whoreson! Bring him to the ramparts!”
Reynauld stamped out of the room and Casca was grabbed roughly and marched after him, two spears jabbing his back and two more in front, held by men walking backwards. They weren’t taking any chances, especially after they had witnessed him bettering Meurtrier. He was led down the tunnel cut into the rock and out to the outer courtyard, then up into one of the towers and out onto the ramparts that looked out over the countryside. Reynauld halted and Casca was brought up sharply, the spear tips jabbing painfully into his chest and back.
“Now you dirty pig,” Reynauld said, his face twisted into a mask of hate, “you’re going to jump. If you refuse, my men will throw you off. Either way, your bastard body is going to rot down there.” Casca peered over the edge. The drop was about a hundred and fifty feet to a rock strewn slope at the foot of the rock cliff that Kerak was sited upon. He gulped and edged back but the spears jabbed again.
Reynauld smiled mirthlessly. “I’m told you humped the servant girls. Did you hump that bitch girl de Beaucaire?”
Casca faced the red-faced man. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, you ugly warthog.”
Reynauld raged and struck Casca across the face. “Don’t play with me you swine! That bitch should have been mine to play with, and you’ve taken her away from me!”
Casca was forced up by two burly guards and teetered on the edge. He had a wave of nausea before his vision cleared. He looked at Reynauld once more. “I’ll get you for this, de Chatillon. Mark my words, I’m gonna kill you.”
Reynauld laughed aloud. “You kill me? You stupid Saracen, you’re going to be dead in a moment!”
“You think so?” Casca smiled, his eyes boring into Reynauld’s. “I’ll find you, and when I do, all the guards in Outremer won’t save you.”
Reynauld felt a shiver run through him, then his mouth snapped shut. “Throw the bastard off my castle.”
Spears jabbed into Casca, sending him over the edge. He fell through the air, the walls rushing past, then the cruel edges of the rock mound. He hit one with a numbing crushing blow and he felt something cave in, then blackness descended on him.
Reynauld watched as the body struck rock edges three times before striking the ground and rolling a short distance to lie still against the side of a large fallen rock. “Hah, that’s another dirty spy dealt with! Kill me? Stupid swine!”
The guards grinned and took one last look themselves before following their master off the ramparts.
But down below the body was already healing itself from the horrific injuries it had sustained.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Count Raymond III of Tripoli sighed, rose from his chair and turned to gaze out over the rooftops of Tiberias. Glittering in the near distance was the lake of the same name – called in Biblical times Galilee – and he looked at the boats plying its surface for a moment, before turning back round to face the young figure of the Lady Eleanor de Beaucaire.
She had improved greatly since her arrival the evening before and Raymond judged she would be a very beautiful woman in a few years time. It was marvelous what a wash, change of clothing and a few hours’ work by hand maidens could do. Eleanor sat in a smaller chair facing the count, dressed in a simple one-piece dress, gathered at the waist. It was long sleeved and hung in folds to her ankles.
Her hair had been washed and combed and the grit, sweat and insects that had made home within it were gone. It was gathered behind her head and hung down her upper back. She wore little jewelry, for her family were poor and most of what she had had been left behind in Kerak. She did, however, have around her neck a golden necklace adorned with a silver star. A simple piece, Raymond thought, but exquisite.
“This is a serious matter, Lady Eleanor,” he finally said. “You realize the gravity of what you are saying?”
“I do, Count Raymond,” she replied calmly, “but what I have said is true. My father would confirm what I have told you if he were able to.”
Raymond nodded and regretted the old man was still unconscious. The Syrian doctor had brought de Beaucaire to him a few days ago, fearing the noble’s life to be in danger. The two reasons he gave for transporting the wounded man to Tiberias by cart were that the air was more conducive to healing here, and secondly it was safer from those who wished further harm upon him. Beteras was too close to the frontier.
When Eleanor had arrived at Tiberias with her small party, she had been reunited with her father and was tearful at his condition. Then Count Raymond had persuaded her to sleep and has assured her de Beaucaire was being guarded well and tended by the best. Syrian physicians were so much better than those from Europe.
Now Guillaume had vowed to remain by de Beaucaire’s side and heaven help anyone who tried to do further harm to him.
“I don’t know what I can do without a full convention of the Court in Jerusalem,” Raymond admitted. “I may be regent but I can do little against a man of Reynauld’s standing on my own. He has many powerful friends, and I fear trying to bring him to account may cause an irreparable split in the kingdom. We do not have a strong king and it is taking all my skills as a diplomat to keep the fools within our borders from starting a war we could never win. To split this kingdom into two now would be catastrophic.”
Eleanor sat rigid in her chair. Two spots of anger burned high on her cheeks. “You mean he will go unpunished for insulting my virtue? And what of the man who saved me; Rufus Longue? He is a prisoner of de Chatillon and I fear they may do terrible things to him.”
Raymond bowed his head. Sometimes the weight of responsibility was too much to bear! If only he could march down to Kerak and strip that boor Reynauld of his title and banish him into the desert. If only. “I shall visit Kerak castle myself as part of my duties as regent, inspecting the outer defenses of the realm. While there I shall conduct my investigations as to your visit and to the whereabouts of this mysterious Rufus Longue. However, it may be difficult since, as you say, he was in the employ of an Arabic trader. Reynauld does not like Arabs or Saracens and anyone employed by them is fair game to him. I fear for his life, my lady.”
Eleanor closed her eyes. The gallant man had given his life for her safety. She felt a sense of loss; she had never thanked him for what he had done properly, truly he had been a proper chivalrous knight, even if he was of low birth or social standing. She would remember him.
____
Casca was still a going concern, but in a bad way. He had come to at night, wracked with pain and having to cope with broken bones all over. Under the cover of night he had limped away from the crag of Kerak castle but had only made a mile or so before passing out.
When he had come to once more he had found himself in a gully, probably a dry wadi that would fill suddenly during the wet season. Out of sight from prying eyes he had reset his broken arm, ribs and leg. His screams had echoed down the walls of the wadi but apart from a jackal investigating the strange smell, nothing witnessed what had made the noises.
Casca had passed out again and came to lying face up staring at the stars in a cloudless night sky. He wasn’t sure how his face looked but he guessed it was rather like some particularly unfortunate ape he’d once seen in a cage in North Africa many years ago. It was puffy, sore and his muscles refused to obey his will. Added to that he was dribbling constantly, as
his mouth was battered and split. He wondered if his teeth were still there, then gave up. Besides, if they were gone, they’d probably grow back anyway, but until then, people would think he had leprosy and no doubt he’d be stoned.
He had decided to find water and went in search of it but had no luck. Eventually he made his way to the caravan trade route he’d been on and gambled on someone passing by sooner or later. He’d sat down and waited. The stars wheeled overhead and after a while he passed out again.
When he had come round again it was daylight and a few pilgrims had stopped to examine him, their beasts as curious as their owners. Casca had tried to talk but it sounded like rampant flatulence so he used signs to indicate he had fallen and needed assistance to the nearest town.
The pilgrims were sympathetic, having recently visited Mecca, and were returning to their homes in various places in Syria and Persia, and they were going to Damascus to stay at a friend’s hostel. They thought Casca to be some sort of simple peasant, maybe a madman, but blessed by Allah in some odd way, and they took pity on him. Casca cared not for it was a free lift and a journey to safety away from Reynauld and his collection of maniacs.
The journey was one of alternating sleep and torture; the cart he lay on rattled and bumped its way along the undulating road surface, and the donkey pulling it had excessive bowel movements with attendant aromas. As a means of sight-seeing the Syrian countryside, he could think of better ways. Nonetheless, his healing powers worked as well as they always did and by the time Damascus came into sight his face was approaching something like its normal self. His arm, ribs and leg still ached, but only dully. He did, however, sport an amazing collection of bruises and the pilgrims spent many a day playing, “Guess how many colors?” on any given part of his anatomy. Casca shut his eyes and allowed them their harmless game.