by K. M. Ashman
Hassan dropped to his knees and dipped his head into the clear water, completely unaware of the drama unfolding behind him.
‘It is cold and sweet, Master Cronin,’ he gasped, lifting his head and pushing his long black hair back from his face, ‘better than the choicest wine in Christendom.’
When there was no answer, he turned to look back, his face falling as he saw the archer training his bow on the sergeant. He looked rapidly between the two, realising that it must seem to Cronin that he had once more been led into a trap.
‘My lord,’ gasped Hassan, ‘I had no idea he was here. This is not of my doing.’
‘Don’t move, Hassan,’ said Cronin slowly, ‘keep very, very still.’
He stared at the archer, his heart racing as he sought a way out of his predicament. If he ducked and rolled and the first arrow missed, perhaps he could cover the ground before the man had a chance to reload. With no other options available, his hand reached for his knife, but the archer drew back his drawstring even further to emphasise the menace. Cronin swallowed hard, unsure what to do. To risk an attack seemed like the only option and even if he was wounded or killed, at least Hassan may survive to continue with the message for the king.
‘Hassan,’ he said quietly, ‘in a moment I am going to try and rush him. As soon as he releases his arrow, whether I am hit or not, you must grab my horse and ride as hard as you can for Blancheguarde.’
‘No, my lord,’ gasped Hassan, ‘you must be the one to warn Jerusalem. Let it be me who takes the arrow.’
‘No Hassan,’ snapped Cronin, ‘you will do as I say. Hopefully, I can delay him long enough for you to escape. After that, the fate of Jerusalem is in your hands.’
‘My lord,’ gasped Hassan again, ‘please...’
‘The decision is made, Hassan,’ said Cronin, ‘move on my command. Ready…?’
----
‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ said a voice in English and Cronin spun around to see two dishevelled European soldiers standing a few paces behind him, along with another two archers, each with arrows already notched into their bowstrings.’
Cronin gasped with surprise and stared at the men. His hand fell away from his belt and he stood there in silence, unsure of who they were or where they had come from.
‘Unsheathe your knife,’ said the man, ‘and throw it to the ground.’
‘What?’ gasped Cronin, ‘why do you want me to do that? Are we not comrades in a foreign land?’
‘I have no idea who or what you are,’ said the man. ‘For all I know you could be a brigand or even a Saracen sympathiser.’
‘Are you mad?’ asked Cronin. ‘Do I look like a Saracen? Am I not talking in the king’s English?’
‘I can take no risks,’ said the man, ‘just do as I say. There will be time enough to find out who you really are when you are unarmed.’
‘And unable to defend myself.’
‘Look around you, stranger. If I wanted to kill you, you would be already dead. Now lose the knife.’
Cronin looked around in frustration and he knew there was nothing he could do. With a curse he removed his knife from his belt and threw it on the ground.
‘Now get down on your knees,’ said the man.
‘Why?’ asked Cronin. ‘I am no longer any danger to you. Just tell me who you are and what you want.’
‘On your knees,’ said the man, the quicker you comply, the sooner we can sort this out.’
Cronin dropped to his knees as another two men dragged Hassan over, throwing him to the ground besides the sergeant.
‘Right,’ said the man, as the archers lowered their bows. ‘Let’s get something straight. We are going to talk, and we are going to be completely honest with each other. However, if I feel at any moment that you are lying, then you will be dead in a heartbeat. Understood?’
‘You make yourself very clear,’ said Cronin, ‘but how am I to know you are not a brigand yourself, using trickery to extract information and sell it to the Saracens?’
The stranger paused before reaching inside the neck of his tunic and retrieving a cross on a leather string.
‘This is the symbol of our lord,’ he said, ‘and I swear on the body of Christ himself that I am a Christian, and as such seek only truth, honour and justice in his name.’
‘You are a knight?’ asked Cronin.
‘I am,’ said the man, ‘and these are my men, or what is left of them.’
‘What happened to your command?’
‘We were on a patrol and were ambushed by the Saracens. We few are the only ones who escaped and seek a path back to our king.’
‘What is your name?’ asked Cronin.
‘I am Sir Gerald of Jerusalem,’ came the reply, ‘and I ride under the banner of King Baldwin the Fourth.’
----
The revelation took Cronin by surprise. Whoever these men were, to find them so far off the beaten track, and in such a dishevelled state was a shock.’
‘So,’ said Gerald, ‘tell me your tale first, stranger, for it is I who holds the advantage.’
Cronin paused, still uncertain whether to believe the man as his filthy appearance and the fact he was accompanied by Turkish archers suggested otherwise. However, realising he was in no position to argue, proceeded to recount everything that had happened to him since arriving in the Holy Land. When he had finished he sat back and returned his captor’s stare. If the man was lying, then his fate was sealed.
Gerald stared back at Cronin. The tale was fanciful yet there was a truth about the man, evident in both the way that he spoke and the manner of his address.
‘So, you claim you are Templar,’ he said eventually.
‘Not a knight,’ said Cronin, ‘a sergeant at arms. However, we serve the same order. The circumstances I have recounted separated me from my brothers, so I need to get to get to Blancheguarde Castle as soon as possible to raise the alarm.’
Gerald paused again before walking over and retrieving Cronin’s knife from the dust. He walked back and extended an arm to help the sergeant to his feet.
‘I believe you, Tom Cronin,’ he said, handing back the knife, ‘and will do everything in my power to help for we share the same concerns. I too fear Saladin is about to push northward though I have to admit, I did not realise he was already north of Gaza.’
‘Not only is he here,’ said Cronin, ‘but is already on the move. I fear he is only a day or so behind us.’
‘Then there is no time to waste but I have a question. Why is it that you head for Blancheguarde? Surely you should be riding to Ashkelon?’
‘Why would I go to Ashkelon? The king needs to know, and he is in Jerusalem.’
Gerald stared again before responding.
‘Of course,’ he said eventually, ‘you would not know what has happened in your absence. The king rode out from Jerusalem to reinforce Ashkelon after receiving intelligence that Saladin’s threats to Gaza were no more than a feint. By now, with God’s grace, he is already safely ensconced behind the city walls.’
‘But if that is the case, who defends Jerusalem?’
‘A holding garrison only. The main army is still in the north and every other available man has ridden south to join the king.’
‘That means,’ said Cronin, ‘that Jerusalem is at the mercy of Saladin. We have to let them know.’
Gerald thought furiously, his mind spinning at the implications.
‘I agree,’ he said eventually, one of us needs to get to Ashkelon as soon as possible. You are the only ones with horses so your mission to Blancheguarde must be forfeited to ensure Baldwin is alerted as soon as possible.’
‘Blancheguarde is the only well garrisoned castle between Saladin and Jerusalem. Is it not important that they too are warned?’
‘Aye it is, but Baldwin needs to know Saladin is on his way so he can divert what forces he has against him. That must take priority over Blancheguarde, so you have to ride to Ashkelon. We will follow as quickly as we
are able.’
Cronin stared at the knight, knowing that what he was about to say involved huge risk.
‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘It must be you who tells the king. If I went, he would waste too much time asserting my identity and even then he may not believe me. If you go, he can mobilise his men within hours.’
‘But I have no horses.’
‘Then take ours. Like you said, it is a matter of priorities.’
‘And what about you?’
‘We will continue to head for Blancheguarde on foot. They are my brethren and are more likely to believe my tale. Besides. it is closer and if the remainder of your men join us, we have every chance of making it alive. If we do, we will alert them to the risk and have them stand to the defences.’
Gerald looked at Cronin, knowing he was right. God had seen fit to provide them with an opportunity and it had to be seized. He held out his hand and grasped Cronin’s forearm in respect.
‘You are a good man, Tom Cronin,’ he said. ‘With God’s grace, your selfless service will see us prevail in the struggle against Saladin and if we do, make no mistake, the king will know of your role in all this.’
‘Just promise me one thing,’ said Cronin. ‘If you make it to Ashkelon, waste not a second in sending a message to Gaza. There is a strong Templar garrison there and something tells me the king is going to need every sword he can muster.’
‘Consider it done,’ said Gerald.
‘My lord,’ said Hassan quietly after Gerald had turned away to brief his men, ‘are we to give up the horses?’
‘We are, Hassan,’ said Cronin, ‘but it is for the greater good.’
‘Then I will see them watered well and fed whatever I can find. They will not let your comrades down.’
‘I’m sure they won’t, Hassan,’ said Cronin, ‘but make haste for our own journey to Blancheguarde still lays before us.’
----
An hour later, the men were ready to leave. Gerald of Jerusalem and Hunter were to take the horses and ride to Ashkelon while Cronin, Hassan and the rest of the men would walk to Blancheguarde Castle.
‘We will waste no more time,’ said Gerald, leading his horse over to Cronin. ‘With God’s speed, we should be there no later than tomorrow morning. If we are, I will send back a patrol to find you.’
‘You just worry about alerting the king,’ said Cronin.
Gerald was about to respond when one of the sentries came running down from the ridge, his face ashen with fear.
‘My lord,’ he gasped in broken English, ‘we must leave this place with all haste.’
‘Why, asked Gerald, ‘what is it you have seen?’
‘My lord, I have just challenged a goat farmer who is hurrying this way with his flock. He says a great army is on the march from the Maktesh Ramon and are headed this way.’
‘Saladin has broken camp,’ said Cronin urgently, turning to Gerald, ‘and is heading west. You have to get to Ashkelon and warn the king.’
‘My lord,’ interrupted the sentry, ‘there is more. He says he saw an even greater army heading across the mountains towards Al-Safiya.’
‘Al-Safiya is the gateway to Jerusalem,’ said Gerald, ‘with only Blancheguarde to protect the road. Saladin must intend engaging Baldwin in Ashkelon while the main threat rides north unopposed.
‘You need to be gone,’ said Cronin. ‘Ride like the wind, Sir Gerald, we will try to warn Blancheguarde in time.’
‘With God’s will, we will talk again soon,’ said Gerald and without another word, turned his horse to ride down the slope.’
----
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gaza Castle
November 18th
AD 1177
‘Brother Harold,’ roared Sir Valmont, striding through the main hall and casting his gloves onto the table, ‘attend me.’
The castellan appeared from a side door and scuttled across to stand before the Seneschal. The column from Acre had only been in Gaza for a few days but the whole garrison had been shook-up at the commander’s overpowering authority.
‘My lord,’ said Harold, casting a stripped chicken bone to a lurking dog and wiping his hands on the sides of his surcoat, ‘I thought you were out on patrol.’
‘I was,’ said Sir Valmont, ‘but have a task that needs addressing.’ He glanced at the dog scurrying away with his prize. ‘I must have lost track of time,’ he mused sarcastically, ‘for I have surely missed the bell for the evening meal.’
Harold looked at the dog and his face reddened with embarrassment.
‘Oh that,’ he said awkwardly, ‘it was a mere morsel I assure you. I have just returned from a rigorous drill session with the Marshal and needed to eat.’
‘I would imagine your comrades also feel the pangs of hunger,’ said the Seneschal, ‘did you share your treat with them?’
‘My lord,’ he stuttered, ‘it was just…’
‘I know what it was,’ interrupted the Seneschal, ‘it was displaying weakness while your brothers around you remain true to their oaths. Tonight, you will take your evening meal to one of the beggars outside of the castle walls and watch over him while he eats.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Harold, his head hanging in shame.
‘Stand up straight,’ ordered the Seneschal, ‘and act like the knight you purport to be. Now, tell me, who of the men still in the castle is your best?’
‘That would be brother Lyon,’ said the castellan. ‘He is a master swordsman, fearless and is true to his vows.’ His voice lowered. ‘Unlike me.’
‘Enough of the self-pity, Brother Harold,’ said the Seneschal. ‘Serve the penance and move on. Now, where can I find Brother Lyon?’
‘I believe he is in the armoury,’ said the castellan, ‘he broke his lance this morning on the training field.’
The Seneschal left the hall and strode across the courtyard to the armoury. Ducking inside he immediately saw a tall man with a shock of red hair stood by the racks of lances, accompanied by the much shorter, and much fatter armourer.
‘Brother Lyon,’ he said, walking across to the two men.
‘Master Valmont’, replied the knight with a slight nod of deference, ‘what can I do for you?’
The Seneschal looked at the armourer who immediately turned and left the room. Short of issuing the weaponry, he had no place in the company of knights.
‘I have a task for you,’ said the Seneschal turning back to face his brother knight. ‘As you know the Grand Master rode back to Ashkelon yesterday for a briefing with the king. On the way, he passed a caravan of pilgrims headed this way and has sent a message back for us to ride out and escort them in. The coastal road should be free of brigands but in the circumstances, it may be prudent to afford them suitable protection. I want you to bring them back here.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ said Brother Lyon. ‘How many of our men shall I take?’
Twenty lancers should be ample,’ said the Seneschal, ‘though I need all our brother Templars to remain here. Are you comfortable with this?’
‘As long as they can fight, then I have no issue with whom I share the task.’
‘I expected no less,’ said the Seneschal. ‘If you leave within the hour you should be back by midday tomorrow.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ said the knight.
Brother Valmont nodded and left the armoury before heading for the southern tower and climbing the stone staircase. At the top, he walked out onto the battlements and over to the two sentries posted there, mercenaries recruited from the many soldiers who hired out their sword arms across the Holy Land. He looked out over the city and towards the southern plains. The land stretched away as far as the eye could see and he knew that somewhere out there, the most feared Saracen leader in a generation was making his plans against them.
‘Have you seen anything?’ he asked eventually.
‘Not yet, my lord,’ said one of the soldiers, ‘only the usual comings and goings of the locals going about their bus
iness.’
‘Half of those locals are likely to be Saracen sympathisers,’ said Brother Valmont, ‘and their business is spying on Saladin’s behalf.’
‘They have us disadvantaged in that respect,’ said the soldier.
‘Aye they do, but it is we who are incumbent in this fortress and it is for them to dislodge us. That evens the fight. Keep your eyes peeled and let one of us know the moment you see anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ said the soldier and turned back to his post as the Seneschal left the watch tower.
‘There is an air of arrogance about them that makes me feel uneasy,’ he said when the knight had left.
‘The Templars?’
‘Aye. They strut about as if they own the whole of the Holy Land.’
‘That may be so,’ said his comrade, ‘but when it comes to a fight, I know who I would prefer alongside me, the men who bear the cross of St George upon their chest.’
----
Several leagues north, in the coastal fortress of Ashkelon, King Baldwin held court for his lords and knights. The hall was packed with many men, each bearing their different coats of arms emblazoned upon their tunics, and the flags of Jerusalem hung from the walls and rafters. Amongst them all were the Outremer lords, Joscelin III of Edessa, Balian of Ibelin and Reginald of Sidon, while representing the Templars was Eudes de St. Amand, the Grand Master of the order.
The noise in the hall suddenly fell away as a herald announced the arrival of the king and everyone fell silent, bowing their heads in respect as Baldwin entered, dressed in a chainmail hauberk and a surcoat bearing the colours of Jerusalem. Behind him came William of Tyre.
He climbed up onto the platform and approached the war throne, ignoring the offered hand from William and turned to address the men who would be fighting on behalf of Christianity itself.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘thank you for assembling here. I know you have a thousand tasks to address and time is precious, but I thought it important that we are all briefed on the current situation. As you can see, we have several new faces amongst us and their arrival is most welcome.’ He paused, breathing deeply. Even to speak uninterrupted for so little time was an effort and he mentally cursed his affliction. This was a time to display strength and confidence, not weakness and doubt.