Holy Warrior

by David Pilling

  He cupped his ear. “Listen. I can hear the Devil’s laughter.”

  His bleak jest did little to improve Father Rossel’s temper, though a corner of Maymun’s mouth twitched in amusement. The tall, rangy Dominican turned on his heel and stalked away up the dusty street, muttering under his breath. His fellow friars, Godfrey Waus and John Parker, trotted after him. Parker, the youngest, shot Hugh an anxious look as he went.

  “I had better go and pray,” Hugh said to Maymun. “Otherwise Brother Rossel might excommunicate us both.”

  Maymun gave another of his half-smiles, and Hugh strode off after the magpies, as he secretly termed them.

  After mass, as the little band of Englishmen waited for the church to empty, a troop of soldiers shoved their way through the bustling throng at the doorway. The crowds parted to let them through. Hugh tensed at the sight of the arms on their shields and tunics. A rearing white lion against a red field.

  The arms of Montfort. Hugh had last seen them in England, fluttering proudly from Earl Simon’s banners as he rode through the streets of London at the head of his knights. Lost among the crowd, Hugh only saw the man from a distance. He was a tall, imposing figure, one fist planted arrogantly on his hip. He stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the wild cheers of the citizens. They already regarded him as a living saint, and spoke in hushed whispers of the miracles he performed. It was said Montfort could heal the sick by laying his hands on them, a divine power usually reserved for kings.

  Hugh never shared in the worship of Earl Simon. Now, as the soldiers tramped into the church, their mailed feet ringing on the flagstones, he almost wished he had. He certainly wished himself back in England.

  “You are the envoys of the Lord Edward,” barked their captain, a heavyset man with a full grey beard, his eyes glinting under a conical helm with a nose guard. “My lord wants to see you. At once.”

  Father Rossel drew himself to his full, impressive height. Hugh expected him to deliver a sharp response, but the friar wasn’t a diplomat for nothing.

  “Of course,” he replied in a tone of smooth courtesy Hugh wouldn’t have thought him capable of. “We meant to seek out your noble lord after mass. Our royal master wishes to pay his compliments, and request safe passage for us from Tyre.”

  The captain looked mildly disappointed, as though he had expected the Englishmen to put up a fight.

  “Come with us, then,” he snapped. Father Rossel beckoned at his fellow Dominicans, and together they meekly walked down the nave in single file. Hugh brought up the rear. He couldn’t resist a cheery nod at the captain, who glowered at him.

  Give this man half an opportunity, thought Hugh. And he will gladly slit my throat. We’re not welcome here.

  He and his comrades were escorted through the narrow, teeming streets of Tyre to the city gates. Hugh’s ears rang to the different languages spoken all around him, while his mind and senses struggled to take in all the sights and smells. The air was full of the heady scent of spices, along with the usual dung of the streets and stench of unwashed bodies. There was also a salt tang of the sea, wafting in from the harbour.

  Tyre was a city of layers, built on top of older, grander civilisations. Hugh gaped at the remains of Roman civilisation: the roofless shell of a bath-house, a double row of columns that had once supported the roof of a pagan temple, the stump of a once-massive triumphal arch. All in ruins, broken and worn away by the passage of time.

  He wondered how long the Christian city would stand. A few more years, perhaps, before the relentless Saracen tide washed over it all. Tyre would go the same way as Antioch, once an even greater city to the north, a jewel of Outremer.

  Once. Two years previously, Antioch had fallen to Baibars. The tales of his rape of the city, the mass slaughter and enslavement of the Christian populace, were carried all over England by preachers seeking to whip up support for a new crusade. Antioch was now a graveyard, as dead and broken as the Roman remains in Tyre.

  These dark thoughts occupied Hugh as the procession left Tyre and entered the hill country beyond. After a couple of miles of tramping along a dusty highway, flanked by bare brown hills, the stubby towers of a castle rose into view. A side-road led off the main highway to the castle, a lonely stone citadel perched high on a rocky outcrop. Montfort banners flew from the square towers of the gatehouse and the outer wall. Hugh gazed up at the white lion, hanging limply in the stale air. It seemed there was no end to the power and reach of the Montforts.

  No matter where I go, he thought, they follow me. Even here, on the other side of the world…

  John de Montfort, lord of Tyre, was not what he expected. He received his guests in the coolness of the great hall, a large, shadowy chamber dappled in sunlight through twin rows of large arched windows. Montfort sat on a raised dais at the northern end of the hall, resplendent in Saracen dress: a long, loose robe of white silk with a red sash, and a light blue cloak pinned at the shoulder with a silver brooch, shaped as the lion of his house. Gold rings flashed on his long, nervous fingers, and he toyed constantly with the cross of a thin golden chain about his neck.

  To Hugh’s surprise, Montfort employed Saracens as his personal guard. They stood at the doorway and either side of the dais, even more splendidly dressed than their master. One, a hulking figure Hugh took to be their captain, was a dark-skinned giant with shoulders like a bull, his bald head covered under a white turban. This man stood to the left of Montfort’s high chair. Mute and expressionless, like a statue, his crimson-flecked little eyes fixed on the newcomers.

  The greybeard captain of the escort bowed before the dais. “Lord,” he said. “We have brought the English friars, as you requested.”

  Montfort beckoned at Hugh and his companions to come forward. He was a thin, sickly-looking man, grey of pallor, pale blue eyes full of fear and suspicion. The guardsman could have snapped his neck between finger and thumb.

  “Three Dominicans,” said Montfort in a high, somewhat strained voice. “And one…what are you, sir?”

  Hugh gave a slight bow. “Master Hugh Longsword, my lord,” he said formally. “Clerk of the Lord Edward’s household.”

  Montfort looked Hugh up and down. His haughty little mouth set in a frown of disapproval, even as he fiddled with the cross at his neck.

  “A fighting clerk, if I’m any judge,” he drawled. “Unless you came by those scars by scratching yourself on a quill.”

  He chuckled at his own jest, then lost interest in Hugh. “Which one of you is in charge of this expedition?” Montfort demanded.

  Father Rossel stepped forward. “I am, my lord,” he replied. “My royal master has empowered me to send you compliments, and to deliver this letter.”

  He held a roll of vellum, bound with a red ribbon and sealed in red wax. The priest extended his arm to offer it to Montfort, who glared at the vellum as if it was a live snake.

  “Your master…” he began, and then checked himself, pawing at his throat. Hugh detected the hostility in his voice. As he feared, Montfort was no friend of the Lord Edward.

  “My clerk is not present,” Montfort added. “Read out the letter, Father. Read it out!”

  Rossel looked taken aback, but after a moment unwrapped and broke the seal on the vellum. He then unrolled it and started to recite.

  “Edward, firstborn son and heir to Henry, illustrious King of England, lord of Ireland and Duke of Guienne, to the noble John de Montfort, lord of Tyre. We present our compliments, and request you grant passage through your dominions to Father Reginald Rossel, Godfrey Waus and John Parker and their company, as they…”

  Here Rossel paused. “Well?” Montfort demanded when the friar continued to hesitate.

  “My lord,” said Rossel. “This message is meant for your ears only. To read out the content would reveal the purpose of our embassy. It is not safe…”

  “Safe!” Montfort shrieked. “My castle is as safe as anywhere in Outremer! Or do you suspect me of treachery?”

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nbsp; He sat bolt upright in his chair, eyes bulging, veins pounding in his neck. For a moment it seemed as though he might launch himself at Rossel. The big guardsman shifted slightly. Hugh kept a wary eye on him. The massive curved sword at his waist looked capable of chopping a man clean in half.

  If necessary, Hugh would have to put himself between the Dominicans and the giant. The thought of engaging this giant in combat made his stomach twist in knots, but that was his duty.

  He was impressed by Father Rossel’s reaction. The elderly friar, apparently unruffled by Montfort’s outburst, bowed submissively from the waist.

  “My humblest apologies, lord. On behalf of myself and the Lord Edward. No offence was meant. Yet secrecy is of the highest importance. I cannot – must not – read out this letter in public.”

  Montfort closed his eyes and sucked in breath. Then he let it out in a deep, shuddering gasp and slowly subsided, hands gripped tightly on the arms of his chair. Hugh, who recognised bad acting when he saw it, put a hand over his mouth to hide a smile.

  “We will talk in private, then, you and I,” Montfort said eventually. He spoke in a condescending tone, as if he granted Rossel a great favour. “Now, if you please.”

  He flapped a hand at Rossel’s companions, including Hugh. “Captain, take the rest of these men away. See they are fed and watered.”

  Hugh allowed himself to be escorted down to the kitchens, where bread, cheese and ale were set before him. Montfort’s servants were every bit as graceless as their master and ignored his efforts at conversation. He shrugged and got on with his meal. All the while he kept one hand close to his sword and looked about for any sign of treachery.

  Father Godfrey was outraged by Montfort’s insolence. “Jumped-up little lordling,” he hissed, pushing away his bread and cheese. “See we are fed and watered, indeed! What am I, a horse?”

  Hugh glanced briefly at the friar. He was a rangy figure, of middling height and age, with a hard, dried-up look about him. Unlike most priests, he and his colleague Father Rossel had a toughness about them.

  “Have you always been a man of the church, father?” Hugh asked. He did his best to make the question sound innocent, but Godfrey gave him a sharp look.

  “No, since you ask,” he snapped. “I came to the tonsure late in life. Before that I was a sinful wretch like yourself. Or rather, like them.”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the pair of soldiers flanking the kitchen doorway. Montfort’s captain had posted them there, presumably to keep watch on their unwelcome guests.

  “Aye,” Godfrey went on. “Seventeen years a soldier. I served King Henry in Wales and Gascony. Took a few scars for my pains, loved and lost a few women, as well as a deal of plunder.”

  His deep-set eyes took on a misted look. “I was at the siege of La Réole when I realised my true vocation. How useless my life had been up to that point. How selfish and venal. Shedding the blood of fellow Christians, merely for my own profit. Monstrous. Monstrous! Another existence beckoned.”

  He shook his head and ran a hand through his slightly overgrown tonsure. “Enough of that. I have no desire to dwell on my sinful past. Best forgotten.”

  Shame, thought Hugh. For a second or two, I almost liked him.

  “So you can fight,” he said. “Or could, once upon a time.”

  He glanced at the friar’s girdle. Godfrey carried an eating knife. Sharp enough, but of small use in combat.

  For all his arrogance, Godfrey was no fool. “I believe I can remember a trick or two,” he murmured. “If it should prove necessary.”

  Hugh turned to Brother John, who looked bewildered. “What do you mean?” he squeaked. “Why all this talk of fighting?”

  Languages, Hugh thought contemptuously. That was why John had been attached to the expedition. He was good at languages and could speak with the Tartars in their own tongue. From the look of him, pale and thin and ungainly, Hugh doubted he would be any use in a fight.

  He leaned forward slightly. “Listen, both of you,” he said in a low voice. “I believe Lord Montfort will betray us. He has no love for the Lord Edward, and wishes to harm him. Us. It was a mistake to come here.”

  Godfrey gave a slow nod, though John went pink. He started to gabble, but Hugh held up a hand.

  “Be silent,” he said in a voice of quiet authority. John swallowed his words and chewed his lower lip instead. The young friar trembled all over, like a sick dog, hands trembling as he laid them flat on the table.

  Around them the noise and bustle of the kitchen went on as before. Nobody seemed to pay attention to them. It was hot, thanks to the press of bodies and the great fire crackling under the stone hearth. A suckling pig roasted on the spit, slowly turned by a small boy sheltered from the heat by a wooden targe soaked in water.

  “Eat,” said Hugh, “and try to look normal. Talk about normal things. Betray no hint of suspicion.”

  He picked up the remains of his loaf, tore off a piece and popped it in his mouth. John looked more likely to vomit than eat, while Godfrey’s seamed face was a picture of alarm.

  “Father Rossel,” he said urgently. “We can’t just sit here and stuff our faces. He’s in mortal danger!”

  Hugh spoke through a mouthful of bread. “Was. I fear there is nothing we can do for him. Montfort has probably killed him already.”

  The Dominicans stared at him, horror-struck. Godfrey was the first to find his voice. “We…we must get out, while we still have the chance,” he rasped between gritted teeth. “Or we’re next!”

  He shifted in his seat, then stopped when he saw Hugh made no move. “Well?” he demanded. “What are you waiting for?”

  “A miracle,” replied Hugh. “Or, failing that, a friend.”

  He reached for a bit of cheese. All the while he kept one eye on the guards at the door. They in turn watched the Englishmen like hawks. He could sense the tension in both men, waiting for the order to strike.

  Hugh fought to stay calm. If he didn’t keep his composure, the friars would lose what little remained of theirs. He had seldom been so frightened in his life, not since the wolves of Sherwood.

  This was danger. Terrible, raw danger. The three of them were trapped like rats in a cage, surrounded by thick stone walls and a host of enemies. What were the odds, he wondered, of one swordsman – highly trained, admittedly – and two priests hacking their way through an entire garrison to safety? Hugh wasn’t a gambling man, but he could guess.

  He slowly finished his meal. Neither he nor his companions spoke. The noise around them died down a little. The kitchen slowly emptied of servants. Most of them were Saracens, and he couldn’t understand their tongue. Not that he needed to. It was easy enough to understand their motives, the knowing looks they gave each other, the mixed expressions of hostility and pity on their faces when they glanced at the trio of doomed strangers sat at the long table.

  Hugh listened and prayed. After half an hour his nerves were scraped raw. At any moment he expected to hear the clash of mailed feet in the stairwell outside. Then it would be the end. Nothing to do save die with his back to the wall, sword in hand.

  Finally, he heard it. The sound he had spent the past half-hour begging God to send him. Shouts echoed from outside, the clang of an alarm bell.

  “That’s us,” said Hugh. “Bide here a moment, my friends.”

  He sprang from the bench and strode quickly across the deserted kitchen towards the guards at the door. Distracted by the noise from outside, they swung round in time to see Hugh bearing down on them.

  They reached for their swords. Hugh’s falchion already glittered in his hand. He broke into a run and aimed a kick under the knee of the guard to his left. The toe of his boot connected sharply with bone. There was a hideous crack, and the man folded to the ground with a shriek.

  His comrade lunged at Hugh, sword whirling. Their blades clashed once, twice. The guardsman got in close and tried to drive his knee into Hugh’s groin, who dodged aside.


  “Stand your ground, coward!” the guard yelled. He aimed a cut at Hugh’s neck, who caught it on the hilt and gave a sharp twist. His opponent’s sword spun out of his hand and rebounded against the wall.

  Hugh grinned. All those painful sparring sessions with Sancho, the Aragonese swordmaster in London, hadn’t gone to waste. He followed up by punching the guardsman in the face with his sword-hilt. The man staggered backwards and fell over his comrade, still writhing on the floor, clutching his damaged knee. Hugh chopped downward, two-handed, and clove through the wounded man’s neck.

  A gush of blood splattered across the flagstones. “Godfrey!” Hugh roared. The friar was already up, and darted past to snatch the dying guard’s sword from his hands.

  Godfrey whirled about and beckoned at John. “Move, you fat slug!” he roared. “Unless you want to stay here and die!”

  Ashen-faced and gibbering prayers, the young friar got up. Hugh led the way into the empty passage. Here the noise of the bell was deafening. To his right lay the stairwell that led up to the great hall. Left, an open doorway to the inner ward.

  The shouts came from the ward. Over the raised voices and thunderous bell, Hugh’s ears also detected the ring of steel. He pounded towards the doorway.

  Outside, noon was slipping into the half-light of dusk. Hugh’s practised eye quickly took in the scene, as Master John had taught him to in moments of crisis. Calm, precise, logical.

  One: the ward was enclosed on three sides, with a gatehouse immediately in front of him. The drawbridge was raised and barred.

  Two: Three soldiers in Montfort livery lay dead or wounded, their blood seeping into the dirt.

  Three: Eight more were engaged in combat with five Saracens. The latter fought like silent devils, wielding their terrible curved blades with grim efficiency. Two bore slight wounds.

  Four: The five Saracens were Maymun and his men.

  Five: The rope of a grappling hook trailed from the eastern wall, next to one of the gatehouse towers.

  Six: It was time Hugh got involved.

  He ran at the nearest Montfortian, who was engaged with a Saracen and had his back to Hugh. Hugh’s falchion chopped into the back of the soldier’s knee. Hamstrung, he screamed and toppled sideways. The Saracen put his foot on the fallen man’s chest and stabbed him in the throat.