by K. M. Ashman
‘Yes, my lord. There is no other way.’
Cronin thought furiously. Even though he was new to the Holy Land he knew that Blancheguarde was populated by a garrison of Templars who would provide a serious obstacle for the Saracens. In addition, if he could reach the castle ahead of Saladin, he was far more likely to be believed by whoever was in command and any messages for the king borne onward to Jerusalem would carry much more credence, allowing the city to prepare the defences.
‘I hope you are correct in this,’ said Cronin eventually, ‘for if so, we may have the slightest of chances to slow the Ayyubid down.’
‘I can only say what my own mind tells me, my lord, I may be wrong.’
‘We will trust you are not,’ said Cronin, ‘and must head for Blancheguarde with all haste.’
‘I will have the horses saddled as soon as I can’, said the boy, getting to his feet. ‘Once we are down from this hill, I will seek the quicker paths. We should be in the far mountains by nightfall tomorrow.’
‘Then that is what we will do,’ replied Cronin, ‘but first, we must find some Aloe for your wounds.’
----
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ashkelon
November 17th
AD 1177
King Baldwin sat in a wooden tub filled with lukewarm water. His head laid back against the rim and his eyes were closed, enjoying the momentary silence and fleeting release from pain.
He and his column of knights had been as Ashkelon for two days after a harder than expected journey from Blancheguarde. The rigours of the road had been telling and as well as the pain from his affliction, his body now also bore the uncompromising aches of horseback travel.
William had pressed him to use the litter they had borne from Jerusalem in anticipation of this exact circumstance, but Baldwin had been stubborn stating that if his armies were marching to war, he would lead them, not be carried by them. He knew the decision had been the right one and that the men respected his determination but by the time they had reached Ashkelon, he ached in every part of his body and collapsed onto his bed exhausted, unwashed and wracked with pain.
Since then the close attention from his physicians including the application of Aloe poultices and liberal doses of poppy milk had eased his pain and at last, he could think clearly about the situation unfolding about them.
He sighed deeply, taking in the aroma of the scented oils in the water and of the incense wafting around the room, carried on the late afternoon breeze blowing gently through the open shutters in his quarters. Outside, a bird sang to the sinking sun and for a few moments, Baldwin could almost imagine that he had no worldly worries, no courtly intrigue, no incurable disease, and no imminent war with the Ayyubid.
The last thought brought his mind crashing back to reality. His brow furrowed as the thought of Saladin filled his consciousness. Since arriving at Ashkelon there had been increasing reports of Ayyubid scouting parties ranging through the countryside with some being spotted no more than a few leagues from Ashkelon itself but on each occasion, they had withdrawn rather than engage any of his own forces sent out to confront them. Their continued presence reinforced the intelligence Baldwin had received, stating that Ashkelon was Saladin’s true objective so, despite the temptation to ride out with a larger force to hunt the enemy down, he knew the bulk of his men had to remain garrisoned at the sea port until the main army arrived from the north.
Realising that he could waste no more time on the luxury the bath afforded, he beckoned the two servants to help him out of the tub and donned a cool silken wrap before walking over to the window and staring out over the city. Outside he could see the red clay roof tiles of the jumbled town beneath the castle walls and out into the port where several ships lay at anchor, waiting their turn to unload the stores brought from further up the coast.
The port was one of the largest and busiest on the coast and it was no wonder that it was so coveted by Saladin. From here, he could easily keep his army supplied on any campaign against Jerusalem.
A knock came on the door and one of the servants looked toward the king, receiving a nod of authorisation in return. The boy slid back the bolt and William of Tyre walked into the room, before approaching the king.
‘Your Grace,’ he said, bowing slightly in acknowledgement, ‘you are on your feet again, and if I may be so bold, looking much refreshed.’
‘Thank you, William, ‘said the king, ‘I indeed feel much better and for the first time in an age, the pain is manageable.’
‘Then let us hope that God continues to grant you such a boon and you remain so for as long as possible.’
‘I would suggest my relative comfort it is the poppy’s work, rather than any holy intervention,’ said the king, ‘but I will accept any intervention offered. Wine?’
The prelate nodded silently, deciding to ignore the king’s throwaway dismissal of the lord’s power, putting it down to tiredness and theological ignorance. Besides, he was the king and could say whatever he wanted.
One of the two servants poured two goblets of watered wine and placed them on the table while the second brought over a bunch of grapes. The king and prelate sat at the table as the servants set about emptying the tub.
‘So,’ said Baldwin, after sipping from his glass, ‘as I have been entombed between these walls these past few days, perhaps you can brief me as to the current situation. My men must think me the most neglectful monarch to ever rule Jerusalem.’
‘Nobody begrudges you the time needed to recover,’ said William, ‘and they hold you in high esteem for your leadership. Worry not about their thoughts, only about your health.’
‘And the coming war.’
‘Raynald sees to it that our army, such as it is, remains alert and well prepared. The city is well stocked to survive a siege and we have already arranged for extra supplies to come by sea. Everything is advancing as well as we could have hoped. Also, we have just today received some very good news. That is the reason I am here.’
‘Good news is in short supply. Pray share.’
‘The Lord of Edessa has sent word to say he is on his way with almost a thousand men from Acre and Arsuf. He will be here in a few days.’
‘Lord Joscelin is a good man,’ said Baldwin. ‘I knew I could rely on him.’
‘That’s not all.’ said William, ‘the Arriere-ban is taking effect and men at arms are already drifting in to answer the call to arms.’
‘How many?
‘Only a couple of hundred at the moment but we have received messages from several other lords who muster their men as we speak including Balian of Ibelin and Reginald of Sidon. If Saladin holds back for even a few more days, then I think our ranks will swell considerably.’
‘And the main army?’
‘Already on their way but it will be a while until they arrive. However, judging by the way the word has already spread, we may soon have enough men to hold Saladin back until they get here.’
‘Let’s hope you are correct,’ said the king, leaning forward to retrieve a grape from the platter.
‘Here, let me,’ said William, stretching out from his own chair.
‘No,’ snapped Baldwin, sending the prelate back into his chair in shock. He stared at William of Tyre with undisguised anger until eventually the look softened and he took several grapes before sitting back in his chair.
Silently, William watched the king eat, waiting until he had finished before speaking up.
‘My lord, I meant no insult,’ he said, ‘my intentions were only to help.’
‘When the day comes I cannot even feed myself, Master William,’ said the king, ‘then I will not be fit to wear the crown of Jerusalem and I hope I have the courage to throw myself off the nearest tower.’
‘You don’t mean that, your Grace,’ said William.
‘Don’t I?’ asked Baldwin. ‘I may have lived only sixteen years, yet I have the responsibilities, body and pains of a man five times that age. Every day is a struggle, but I en
deavour to act as a king should. One day, I suspect I will no longer have the strength for that fight and it seems to me the peace of death will be a very attractive option rather than wait to rot in my own skin.’
‘To kill yourself is a sin,’ said the prelate quietly.
‘It may be,’ said the king staring at his friend, ‘but does not God forgive the sins of anyone who fights in his name?’
‘Yes but…’
‘Then I should have nothing to worry about. My term as king may not be great but every moment is dedicated to increasing God’s glory and ensuring Jerusalem is protected for his pilgrims to come to worship where his son gave up his life. If that is not enough to garner forgiveness for one simple sin, then I do not know what is.’
William decided not to anger the king further by arguing the point, choosing instead to pray for forgiveness on his behalf later that night.
‘What about Gaza?’ said the king eventually, almost as if the previous confrontation had never happened.
‘Eudes de St. Amand and his Templars should be there by now. They have been ordered to substantially increase the city’s defences and actively patrol the lands between Gaza and the eastern mountains. If Saladin comes, they will be the first ones to know and will send us a warning in plenty of time. Like I said, everything is being done that can be done. The final piece of the jigsaw will be the arrival of Jerusalem’s army but that is out of our hands.’
‘In that case,’ said Baldwin getting to his feet, ‘you may leave. Ask the knights that rode with us from Jerusalem to assemble in the great hall an hour from now. I would share bread with them and give them thanks for their loyalty so far.’
‘I’m sure they will be honoured, my king,’ said William and after bowing slightly, turned to leave the room.
‘Oh, one more thing,’ said Baldwin. ‘Is there any news of the patrol we sent eastward before we reached Blancheguarde?’
‘Nothing yet, my lord,’ said William, ‘and if truth be told, it causes great concern amongst Sir Gerald’s peers.’
‘As it does I,’ said Baldwin. ‘He is one of my best knights and for him to go missing bodes ill. Let me know immediately if he returns or there is any news of his fate.’
‘I will, your Grace,’ said William, ‘and in the meantime, I will pray for God’s protection over you.’
‘You do that,’ said the king quietly, and popped another grape into his mouth as he watched the prelate retire from the room.
----
In the mountains east of Ashkelon, Cronin and Hassan walked carefully up a winding path, deep in a narrow rocky ravine full of twisted trees starved of water yet hanging onto life. The shadows grew longer as the sun disappeared over the rim of the canyon and Cronin knew they would have to stop for the night or risk breaking one of the horse’s ankles in the darkness.
‘It’s no good, Hassan,’ he said eventually, ‘we are going to have to make camp. See if you can find somewhere safe away from the track.’
‘It has been harder going than I expected, Master Cronin,’ said Hassan. ‘I have not used this route before but know it to be the quickest.’
‘At least we haven’t come across any of Saladin’s men, ‘said Cronin. ‘Perhaps we yet have some time. ‘
The boy carried on until he saw a break in the brush and disappeared for a few moments before reappearing and beckoning the sergeant onward.
‘Over here,’ he said, ‘there is a clearing against the rocks.’
Cronin followed him in. The space was small but just enough to hold them and the horses.
‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘but it’ll do.
They set about removing the saddles and making as much room as they could, cutting away some of the thornier branches for the horses to stand freely.
‘How much water do we have left?’ asked Cronin.
‘A quarter of a skin,’ said Hassan, ‘and what we have left in our gourds. But we can help to quench our thirst from these. He hacked at a nearby cactus and prized away a chunk of the fleshy pulp before lifting it to his mouth and sucking at the moisture.
‘It doesn’t taste good,’ he said, ‘but water is water.’
Cronin cut some of the plant and followed suit. The liquid was bitter, but it moistened his mouth enough to make a difference.
‘It is better than nothing,’ he said, ‘are there more of these plants on our route?’
‘They are sparse but easily found,’ said Hassan.
‘When do you think we will find a stream or well?’
‘Once we clear the mountains, there will be water on the far side. By noon tomorrow, we should be able to drink our fill.’
‘In that case, use what is left to water the horses,’ said Cronin. ‘We will manage with this plant and what we have left in our gourds, but they have nothing, and we need them alive if we are to reach Blancheguarde in time.’
‘As you wish,’ said Hassan and carefully shared the last of the water in the goatskin between the two horses. When he was done, he tied them to a tree and sat down against a rock opposite Cronin.
‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you should eat.’ He threw a small piece of dried beef over to the sergeant and sat back against the rock.
Cronin, caught the precious food, realising how hungry he was but as he began to chew, he stopped and looked up at the boy sat opposite.
‘Where’s yours?’ he asked eventually.
‘I am not hungry,’ said Hassan.
Cronin stared at the boy with suspicion.
‘Show me,’ he said.
‘Show you what, my lord?’
‘Your share of the beef.’
‘There is no need,’ said Hassan. ‘I am just not hungry.’
‘Show me the food, Hassan,’ said Cronin.
The boy didn’t move and did not answer.
‘You can’t can you,’ said Cronin, ‘because this is the last of it. He held up the strip of beef in his hand.
‘It is the last, my lord,’ said Hassan, ‘but it matters not, for like I said, I am not hungry.’
The sergeant looked down at the meat and snapped it in half before throwing a piece back over to the boy.
‘We are in this together, Hassan,’ he said, ‘if I eat, you eat, it is as simple as that.’
‘You are a kind master, my lord,’ said Hassan with a grin and bit off a piece of the meat with enthusiasm.
‘We need to leave as soon as we are able to see the way,’ said Cronin eventually.
‘I will prepare the horses and awaken you before dawn,’ said Hassan before turning on his side with his thawb wrapped tightly around him.
To Cronin’s surprise, the boy was asleep almost immediately and he sat in the darkness contemplating everything that had happened in the past few days. To lose the package from the pope had been a disaster but compared to the potential consequences of not warning Jerusalem of the proximity of Saladin’s army in time, it was an irrelevance not even considering. The thought of the long ride to Castle Blancheguarde the following day was daunting but there was no other option. The Holy Land itself could be at risk.
Gradually his eyes fell heavy and though he had intended to stay awake as long as possible, he was soon fast asleep, oblivious to the world around him.
----
The following morning saw Cronin and Hassan cross over the mountains and start the descent on the other side. The night had passed uneventfully, and they had made good ground in the relative coolness of the morning air.
By midday, they could see the foothills stretching out toward the sea in the distance, but Cronin knew the task was only half done. The mountains had been hard but at least there had been cover from prying eyes. Now they were headed for the lowlands and if they were to make good time, they had to use the well-trodden roads between the many towns and villages, hopefully without drawing the attention of any of Saladin’s roaming patrols.
‘My lord,’ said Hassan, ‘look over there.’
Cronin followed the boy’s pointin
g finger but saw no more than a line of green leaved trees, stretching down the hill like a line of busy ants.
‘What am I looking at?’ he asked eventually.
‘Water,’ said Hassan with a grin and without waiting for a reply, turned off the path. Cronin followed and soon they were walking beneath the boughs of leafy olive trees, but as much as he searched, he could see no stream.
‘Where is the water, Hassan,’ he asked eventually.
‘It is here, said Hassan, we just need to find it.’
‘And how are we supposed to do that?’
By trusting those who have better noses than us,’ said Hassan. He turned and removed his horse’s bridle before giving her a gentle tap on the rump, watching as it trotted off beneath the trees.
‘Hassan,’ said Cronin, ‘be careful she does not gallop off, we need her to get to Blancheguarde. One horse won’t carry us both.’
‘I know horses and they are just as thirsty as us. The difference is, if there is water, they will smell it. Come, we should go where she leads.’
Without another word, Hassan followed the horse, heading back up the hill beneath the shade of the trees.
‘Are you sure about this, Hassan?’ asked Cronin, struggling to keep up. ‘We are wasting valuable time so perhaps we should seek water further down.’
‘Or we could fill our bottles there,’ said Hassan with a grin and pointed to where his horse was already drinking deeply from a pool near a rocky outcrop.
‘Now that’s a clever horse,’ said Cronin approvingly.
‘I told you, Master Cronin, they can smell water from afar.’ He walked over and patted the animal on the haunches. ‘She is a good girl, yes?’
The sergeant was about to speak when he stopped dead in his tracks, staring in shock towards the bushes at the far side of the spring.
There, amongst the tangled undergrowth was an Arab archer, and he had an arrow aimed straight at Cronin’s heart.
----
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Western Mountains
November 18th
AD 1177