by K. M. Ashman
‘There are a few reasons,’ said the knight, ‘the first is that we are still unconvinced he does not spy for the Saracens so despite his proclamation of being a Christian, perhaps it would be better for him not to march amongst us, at least until we know for certain. The second reason is that, if, as you attest, he is Bedouin born then his knowledge of this land will aid you in your task. Take him with you and use his knowledge to shorten your journey.’
‘Understood,’ said the sergeant.
‘You will also report to the king that as requested, we are headed to Gaza to reinforce the garrison there. However, our numbers are few and we will need reinforcements as soon as his army returns from Harim.’
‘And what is it you would have me do, assuming a successful completion of this task?’
‘Wait until the next column leaves Jerusalem and join their ranks. When you get to Gaza, seek me out and your penance will be regarded as spent.’
‘A generous outcome,’ said Cronin ‘and I accept your judgement.’
The knight reached down and produced a satchel from beneath the table, handing it over to the sergeant.
‘This package is from the Pope himself and intended for the king alone. Guard it with your life.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ said the sergeant. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, that is it. However, you must realise that a task such as this for someone riding alone is not without danger. Two men can ride faster than many and it is hoped the boy will know the hidden ways amongst the hills where our carts cannot go.’
‘I understand,’ said Cronin. ‘We will be away as soon as the boy is horsed and equipped.’
‘Thank you, Brother Cronin,’ said the Seneschal, ‘and may God go with you.’
----
Chapter Nine
North of Caesarea Castle
November 7th
AD 1177
Cronin looked at the distant trail of dust in the wake of the column as it headed south toward Caesarea. All around him, the remains of the overnight camp littered the scrubland and some of the night fires still smouldered in the rapidly warming morning air. For a few moments he considered covering the ashes with sand to leave no indication as to the number of men on the road but soon realised it would take far too long and besides, a column the size of that headed toward Gaza could easily be seen at distance so any attempt at subterfuge was a false endeavour.
A few yards away stood Hassan, securing the last of the supplies on the back of his own horse. When he was done he walked over to the sergeant.
‘I am ready, my lord,’ he said, ‘but I do not understand. Why have we been expelled from the caravan?’
‘We have not been expelled, Hassan,’ said Cronin, looking down at the boy’s still bruised face, ‘we are to undertake a task on behalf of the Grand Master.’
‘And what would this task be?’ asked Hassan.
Cronin was about to answer but paused, realising that despite his own beliefs, there was still a chance that Hassan could actually be relaying information to the Saracens.
‘The detail is not important,’ he said eventually, ‘but we need to get to Jerusalem. Do you know the way?’
‘The road is well trodden,’ said Hassan, ‘and easily followed but we could have stayed with the column as far as Ibelin before turning inland.’
‘I am not talking about the traders’ route, Hassan, we will be headed across country as straight as an arrow. I know there are many hidden paths used by your people and trust that you will be able to lead the way.’
‘I know of some,’ said Hassan, ‘but the hills are also filled with bandits and horsemen loyal to Saladin. To go that way would see our heads being struck from our shoulders before the sun sets.’
‘We will be careful,’ said Cronin, ‘but that is the route we must take.’
Hassan looked around at his own horse and then at the one belonging to the sergeant.
‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I will go wherever you order me to go, but first there are things we must do.’
‘Like what?’
‘We need to lose most of the equipment our horses carry.’
‘Why?’
‘The way is hard with little water. The mountain path is difficult, and I fear that to be weighed down as they are, we would lose the horses before we got half way.’
‘We need those stores,’ said Cronin, ‘and there is little we could leave behind.’
‘Please, my lord,’ said Hassan. ‘If you would have me lead the way, I humbly entreat you to trust me. At least half of this baggage must go if we are to head inland, otherwise, we are dead men before we start.’
Cronin stared at the strange boy. To get rid of any equipment went against everything he had learned during many years of warfare, but these were strange lands and he knew he would have to adapt quickly if he was to learn.
‘In that case,’ he said eventually, ‘I will cede to your local knowledge. What is it you suggest we remove?’
‘The tent is unnecessary weight,’ said Hassan, ‘as is your horse blanket. We can sleep beneath the stars. I would also suggest that you leave your armour, but I suspect you will decline.’
‘My chainmail goes with me,’ said Cronin, ‘but the tent and caparison can go. What else?’
‘Most of the food,’ said Hassan, ‘and half of the water. I will feed us from the hills and there are water holes hidden amongst the wadis know only to the locals. We will drink from them.’
‘I’m not happy leaving our food and water, Hassan,’ said the sergeant, ‘it places us at the mercy of the landscape. What if the water holes are dry?’
‘Then we will find another, but all this weight will tire the horses out. Either we do this, or we must seek an easier road.’
‘So be it,’ said Cronin eventually and helped Hassan unload the animals.
Within half an hour he looked again at the horses. Now he had just the one water skin and one satchel of dried food as well as his heavy cloak and his weapons, along with his shield and chainmail.
Hassan carried extra water and food as well as his own cloak and a cooking pot but carried no weapons except for his skinning knife.
‘Now we are ready, Master Cronin,’ said Hassan. ‘Let the horses drink their fill before we leave for we will only have what we carry until tomorrow night.’
I hope you know what you are doing, Hassan,’ said Cronin, pouring some of the excess water into a leather bucket.
‘Trust me, Master Cronin,’ replied Hassan with a smile, ‘you are going into my homeland now. I will look after you.’
----
Ten minutes later, they left the camp and headed inland towards the distant mountains. The sun was rising quickly and the further they went, the hotter it became. By mid-afternoon they had left the fertile coastal plains behind and had started climbing into the hills. The cool sea breeze had long gone and soon, the glare of the sun combined with the heat reflecting off the barren scrubland became overwhelming.
‘We will need to rest soon, Master Cronin,’ called Hassan from behind. ‘To push hard in this sun is the action of madmen.’
‘We have no time to rest, Hassan,’ said the sergeant, ‘we have to reach Jerusalem as quickly as we can.’
‘If you drive this hard, the horses will not even reach the mountains,’ said Hassan.
Cronin reined in his horse and looked down at his own linen shirt. It was black with sweat and he was desperate to get out of the sun.
‘We will stop for a short while,’ he said, ‘but then we press on. Find us a suitable place.’
‘There,’ said Hassan, pointing at an olive tree tucked beneath a nearby ridgeline.
Cronin followed the boy over and dismounted before collapsing against the tree trunk and removing his shirt. Hassan slid from his own horse and set about removing the saddle.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Cronin, ‘surely we will rest moments only.’
‘My lord,’ said Hassan, ‘the horses also need to c
ool down. This way they will see us through to Jerusalem. This afternoon, when the sun weakens we will make good ground and make up for the time we steal now. In the meantime, you should rest.’
The sergeant watched as Hassan continued to strip the horses of all the equipment before pouring some of the precious water into the cooking pot.
‘Steady, girl.’ said Hassan soothingly as one of the horses almost tipped the pot in its eagerness to drink, ‘there is enough to go around, I promise.’
When both animals had been watered, Hassan tied a loose rope around their front legs as a hobble and allowed them to wander.
‘I thought you said they needed to stay cool,’ said Cronin as the young man sat down beside him. ‘Why do you not keep them in the shade?’
‘They are hardy,’ said Hassan, ‘and are used to the heat but there is some sweet grass and herbs on this hillside. If it gets too hot they will seek shade. Trust me, Master Cronin, horses are very clever.’
‘You seem to know them well,’ said Cronin.
‘I do. Those and camels. My father bred both and sold them in the markets across Syria and Egypt.’
‘And which do you prefer?’
‘Horses are good for the trading roads and the cities,’ said Hassan, ‘also for battle. Camels will carry you twice as far with half the amount of water across the worst of the deserts, so my choice will vary depending on the need.’
‘So, which would you prefer for this journey?’
‘Today,’ said Hassan with a sigh, ‘I wish the horses were camels.’
----
The sun was already dropping toward the horizon when Cronin awoke to find Hassan standing over him with one of the water skins and a bowl half full of food.
‘It is time to go, Master Cronin,’ said Hassan as the sergeant squinted to make him out against the dipping sun. We only have a few hours, but the path is good from here and we can make the Judean mountains by nightfall.
‘What have you got there?’ asked Cronin, sitting up.
‘Dried goat and freshly picked herbs,’ said Hassan. ‘The meat is salty, so you can drink deeply but tomorrow, we will drink sparingly. The herbs should be kept in the mouth as long as possible. They will give moisture and a refreshing taste.’ He placed the water skin and food bowl on the floor. ‘The horses are already packed,’ he continued, ‘so we can move as soon as you are able.’
Cronin pulled on his boots and realised he had slept longer than he had wanted. The afternoon air was silent, and in the distance, he could see a small fleet of fishing boats heading out from some unseen harbour. He reached out and took the goat meat from the bowl. It was hard and like Hassan had said, very salty but to have any meat at all was a bonus. The brothers in the order rationed themselves to meat only three times a week and whilst the sergeants were in attendance, they shared the restriction. He swigged at the water skin to help break down the meat in his mouth before standing up and donning his shirt.
‘The path ahead is safe, master Cronin,’ said Hassan leading the sergeant’s horse over to him, ‘so you will not need your armour, but I have placed your cloak over the front of your saddle as it will get colder as we climb into the hills.’
‘Hassan,’ said Cronin as he reached over to remove his hauberk from behind his saddle, ‘I may bow to your knowledge in surviving this land but in matters of armour and warfare, allow me to be the judge.’ He pulled the chainmail shirt over his head and secured his sword belt around his waist before mounting his horse. ‘Ready when you are, Hassan,’ he said eventually, ‘let us be gone.’
A few minutes later, the boy led the way up a goat track to head for the mountains rising in the distance.
----
Back down on the coastal road, two men dressed in thawbs and black turbans rode slowly through the site where the Templar column had spent the previous night, each peering down to the ground. Finally, one stopped to dismount and watched by his comrade, knelt down to examine a set of hoof prints leading from the camp. Satisfied he had found what he was looking for he got back to his feet and mounted his horse.
‘That way,’ he said pointing to the far hills, ‘and let us make haste for there may yet be reward in this thankless task.’
Without another word, they spurred their horses and rode hard toward the distant mountains, following in the footsteps of Cronin and Hassan.
----
Chapter Ten
The Citadel of Jerusalem
November 8th
AD 1177
Baldwin lay on his bed, sleeping fitfully. The silken pillows beneath his head were already soaked with a potent mixture of sweat and pus from what was left of his rotting nose. One of his servants sat at a nearby table, waiting in silence for him to wake up so he could provide fresh bed linen, a task often needed to be carried out several times a night to keep the king as clean as possible.
Midnight had long gone and though the servant knew that to fall asleep invited a terrible punishment, his eyes started to droop, and he pinched himself hard to stay awake.
Outside the chambers, two guards stood silently, each wearing a sheathed sword as sworn protectors of the king’s person. Another servant sat further down the candlelit corridor, always available to run errands should Baldwin need anything.
The corridor was silent and one of the guards sighed deeply, knowing that the fourth bell would soon be sounding. When it did, his relief would arrive, and he could go back to the barracks to grab what sleep he could before morning muster.
A faint, unexpected sound made them both turn and look down the long corridor. The sound of a door slamming in the distance made a welcome break from the endless hours of silence but as they listened, they realised the voices were coming closer and the people responsible were either very angry or very upset.
The door at the end of the corridor flung open and both guards became instantly alert as they recognised Raynald of Châtillon striding towards them, along with William of Tyre
‘I need to see the king,’ barked Raynald, without breaking his stride, ‘I have news he needs to hear.’
‘My lord,’ said one of the guards, ‘we have orders that he is not to be disturbed. Can your business not wait until morning?’
‘No, it cannot. Instruct his servants to awaken him straight away.’
‘My lord,’ said the first guard, ‘with respect, the king has been unwell, and he specifically ordered he was not to be disturbed this night.’
‘I understand you are carrying out your orders,’ replied Raynald, ‘but this is a matter of war. Have him awoken and I will take the responsibility.’
The guard glanced at the prelate standing alongside Raynald. He was well known to the garrison whilst Raynald was a relative newcomer.
‘Do as he asks, sergeant,’ said William, ‘his concerns are valid.’
The guard nodded and turned to knock on the door. A few moments later the bed servant peered around the edge and the sergeant relayed the message.
‘Well?’ said Raynald.
‘Now we wait,’ said the guard, as the door closed again.
Almost ten minutes later the door opened again, though this time the servant held it wide open in invitation.
‘The king will see you now,’ he said and stood aside as they marched into the room.
----
Inside the bed chamber, only the remains of a fire in the hearth lit the darkness along with a few candles placed in niches around the wall. William breathed shallowly as they entered for the king was currently suffering a fresh bout of infection, an occurrence that seemed to flare up more often as the leprosy got worse. Several incense burners swung gently on their chains, freshly lit to cover the sickly smell of the king’s illness permeating the room
Baldwin was sitting in a chair near the fire with one of the bed covers over his lap. Alongside him, the bedroom servant poured warm water from a pot into a silver bowl before soaking a linen pad and gently dabbing the scented water onto the king’s face.
&nb
sp; ‘Your grace,’ said Raynald with a bow of the head, ‘please forgive our intrusion but we have grave news direct from within Saladin’s camp itself.’
‘Come closer,’ said Baldwin, his voice weak and tired.
Both men approached to within a few paces though even at this proximity, it was hard to make out the king’s face as the chair had been carefully placed as not to be illuminated by the light of the flames.
‘Continue,’ said Baldwin when they were just a few paces away.
‘Your grace,’ said William, ‘this evening a man called Fariq bin Malouf, a Bedouin trader of silks throughout the Holy Land, arrived at court and begged audience. He has brought important information relating to the plans of Saladin.’
‘Why would a Bedouin trader come to Jerusalem with information about Saladin?’
‘The Bedouin are no friends of Saladin,’ said William, ‘and this man believes he will be well compensated for the information he brings.’
‘And you came straight here to tell me of this man?’
‘No, your grace, I first reported to the Regent, and it was he who has recommended that you need to hear it yourself, such is its importance.’
‘So, what is this information that is so important you drag me from my sleep?’
‘Your grace,’ said Raynald, ‘according to this man, Saladin is mobilising his army to advance northward in the next few days.’
‘I hear such stories ten times a day,’ said Baldwin, ‘why should I pay this one any credence?’
‘Your grace,’ replied William, ‘I know such rumours are as abundant as olives upon a tree, but it is not the words of the trader that gives them credence, it is their source.’
‘Which is?’
‘They are from a man who has been in our employ for many months amongst the ranks of the Sultan. His information has been found to be trustworthy on many occasions and I have no doubt that it is he that sends the message.’
‘So, what is this message exactly?’ asked Baldwin taking a sip from a nearby goblet containing warmed, watered wine.
‘Your grace,’ said Raynald, ‘it would seem that even as we speak, Saladin is gathering his horsemen to attack Gaza. Once he has the city under siege his plans are then to secure the port of Ashkelon.’