Crusade Page 22

  They’re on to me, he thought. I’m to get the blame for Lord Guy’s fall.

  He took a last look round the familiar faces, hoping to see a friendly smile, or a nod, or any sign of encouragement at all. There was nothing but gaping mouths and blankly curious eyes. Only one face, at the back of the crowd, looked at him with any expression. Jacques, his cloak wrapped round him, was shaking his head with an air of assumed sorrow, like a father disappointed in a child.

  To Salim, Lord Guy’s tent had seemed simple and crude. To Adam it was unimaginably luxurious. The branched candlesticks cast what was to him a brilliant light, and the very carelessness of the richly coloured robes trimmed with thick fur, piled higgledy-piggledy on one of the chests, seemed magnificently casual.

  The doctors were standing by the head of the trestle table on which the wounded baron lay. The Saracen boy, Salim, hurrying in after Adam, had taken his place beside his master. The knights and squires had filed in too, and were standing in a quiet respectful ring round the walls of the tent. Adam tried to catch Sir Ivo’s eye, but the knight was talking in a low voice to his neighbour. They were both looking at Lord Robert, who seemed half frantic with anxiety.

  Father Jerome, standing tall and black beside the blood-flecked white linen sheet on the table, cleared his throat and everyone fell silent.

  It’s coming now, thought Adam. He wanted to blurt out, I didn’t mean to let the dog go. It wasn’t my fault, or his either. Anyway, he saved Sir Ivo’s life. But he didn’t dare open his mouth.

  ‘Lord Guy has made his confession,’ Father Jerome said. ‘Before he can receive absolution, he must speak out publicly. He must make amends for an old sin, and put right a past injustice.’

  Complete silence had fallen in the tent. Adam’s ears, unnaturally sharpened with fear, were painfully aware of the adenoidal snuffle of a young squire, and the rustle of straw as the foreign doctor’s boy shifted his weight from his short leg to his good one. He had barely taken in Father Jerome’s words. He was waiting for someone to seize him and drag him off to be punished.

  ‘Make it brief, Father Jerome, I beg you,’ Dr John urged quietly. ‘With every moment’s delay . . .’

  Father Jerome nodded curtly.

  ‘This won’t take long. Lord Guy wishes it to be known to you all assembled here that Adam, known as the son of Gervase, is in fact his own son, born from an adulterous union with the woman Strangia. He acknowledges him in front of witnesses, and begs your regard and protection for him in the future. The boy, to be known henceforth as Adam Fitz Guy, is no longer a serf but a free man, and the demesne of Brockwood in the vale of Ashmere is to be given him and his heirs in perpetuity as his inheritance.’

  A muted gasp had greeted this declaration, and every eye was turned towards Adam. He stood quite still, paralysed with shock, incapable of unravelling Father Jerome’s words. The only thing he understood was that it seemed, after all, that he was not to be blamed for Lord Guy’s fall.

  ‘So it’s not . . . I’m not . . . it’s not because of Faithful . . .’ he stammered at last.

  No one heard him. Lord Robert, the first to recover, had stormed up to Father Jerome and was shouting in his face.

  ‘It’s a lie! You’re lying! You always hated me. You’re trying to steal my property from me! What’s his hold on you? I won’t take this. I’ll have his eyes put out. I’ll have him hanged.’

  An inarticulate moan from the table silenced him.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ Lord Guy whispered. ‘Adam son of Strangia is my son. He’s your brother. I make him free.’ There was a long, agonizing pause, then the faint, laboured voice spoke again. ‘Swear to me, Robert, on your knees, that you will never hurt him. I should have told you – acknowledged him – long ago . . .’

  His lips went on moving, but the sound died away.

  ‘Please!’ interjected Dr John. ‘There’s no time!’

  Father Jerome ignored him.

  ‘You heard your father, Robert,’ he said coldly. ‘On your knees. Swear.’

  ‘No!’ Lord Robert looked round wildly. ‘This animal can’t be my brother! Look at him! He’s a cunning little serf! My father’s demented. An evil spirit’s entered his head. Dr Nicholas said so. It must be exorcized!’

  Father Jerome frowned.

  ‘There’s no evil spirit. Your father’s speaking a truth which I’ve known for a long time. Until you swear, the doctors can’t continue their work, and if he dies from the delay the guilt of his death will be on your soul and you will have to do penance for the rest of your life. Get down on your knees!’

  Salim, spellbound, saw the rage in the young lord’s eyes turn to bitter animosity, and then to reluctant obedience as he sank down stiffly to his knees.

  ‘I swear by Christ and his Holy Mother,’ Father Jerome said swiftly.

  ‘I swear by Christ and his Holy Mother,’ Lord Robert mumbled resentfully.

  ‘That I will acknowledge Adam Fitz Guy to be my father’s son.’

  ‘That I will acknowledge Adam Fitz Guy to be my father’s son.’

  ‘And that I will never harm him or despoil him of his inheritance.’

  ‘And that I will never harm him or despoil him of his inheritance.’

  ‘It’s done,’ came a faint sigh from the table.

  Father Jerome lifted his right hand and made the sign of the cross.

  ‘Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum tuum,’ he intoned. ‘May the Almighty and Merciful Lord grant you pardon, absolution and remission of your sins. Amen.’ He paused, then made a sign towards the doctors. ‘Dr John, the salvation of Lord Guy’s soul is assured. Do what you can to save his body.’

  Dr Musa had been the only person in the tent to ignore the drama swirling round the lonely figure of Adam, who was still standing motionless at the foot of the table as if he’d been turned to stone. Resting his delicate tapered fingers on the white linen sheet, he’d been bending down to closely examine the horrible wound and the shattered bone of Lord Guy’s skull.

  ‘I think I can see the best way to proceed,’ he was saying to Dr John as the astonished crowd left the tent. ‘With your permission, I’ll withdraw that smaller splinter first, if you can be on hand to staunch any flow of blood. I have to say that my hopes aren’t high. This extraordinary delay . . .’

  The soft incomprehensible Arabic voice faded as Adam was borne outside the tent in the middle of the flow of knights and squires. He didn’t notice that everyone was staring at him. He felt as if he was living in a dream.

  A sudden unexpected clap on the shoulder nearly overbalanced him.

  ‘You’re a dark horse, Adam. What a surprise, eh? You must have known! Of course you did! Having us all on like that.’

  It was one of the squires, who had never deigned to notice him before.

  Adam was so bemused that he could say nothing. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The other squires were crowding round him, talking and laughing, half mocking, half congratulatory, watching him curiously.

  ‘Master of Brockwood, eh?’ one of them said, friendly but envious. ‘Very nice too. My father’s hunted in the forest near there. You’re a rich man, Adam.’

  ‘You think Robert’ll let him get his hands on anything?’ another said. ‘Did you see his face? He’ll find a way round his oath, if he possibly can. I’ll be amazed if . . .’

  ‘Adam Fitz Guy! Who’d have thought . . .’

  The voices buzzed on.

  He’s my father. Lord Guy’s my father. I’m his son. The words came into Adam’s head as if from nowhere and rang around in it like a peal of bells. They made a strange clamouring sound, without meaning. Dazed, he was barely aware of the noisy squires all around him. At last he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Come with me, Adam,’ Sir Ivo was saying.

  Relieved to be told what to do, Adam stumbled after him to his tent.

  Sir Ivo let down the flaps at the tent’s entrance, lit the wick in his little oil lamp and sa
t down on his folding stool. He pointed to the floor, and Adam sat down opposite him, hugging his knees.

  ‘You had no idea about this?’ Sir Ivo said. ‘You look shocked.’

  ‘Is it true? It can’t be!’ Adam burst out, able to speak at last.

  ‘Yes. Lord Guy is your father. It’s come as a great surprise to everyone. I wanted to bring you away, to give you time to think. And to warn you. You’re not in an easy position now, Adam. The way you behave is very important. Your future – even your life – depends on it.’

  Adam couldn’t listen.

  ‘Is that why Ma was so alone? Is that why no one in the village was nice to her?’ he asked wonderingly. ‘And why Father Gilbert and – and everyone said she was such a sinner?’

  ‘Maybe. I didn’t know your mother. But no one in the village could have known who your real father was, or you would have found out long ago. Secrets like that are never kept for long.’

  ‘But they might have known I wasn’t Gervase’s son.’ Adam was frowning with concentration, slowly piecing things together. ‘I’m glad of that. He hated me. I didn’t ever find out why. I tried not to hate him back, but I did.’

  ‘Adam,’ Sir Ivo began. ‘Listen. Lord Robert will try to—’

  ‘She was Lady Ysabel’s maid,’ Adam went on. ‘She must have gone with Lord Guy then. He must have made Gervase marry her, when he found out I was on the way. Not like Lord Robert. He just abandoned Jenny and Tibby.’

  Sir Ivo, watching the process of Adam’s slow realization, gave up trying to hurry him and sat back, allowing him the time he needed.

  ‘But Ma had nothing!’ Anger sparked in Adam’s eyes. ‘Poorer and poorer we got, after Gervase died. It wasn’t much better when he was alive. Always drunk. Hitting us. Why didn’t Lord Guy tell me sooner? He could have helped her! If I’d been able to give her meat . . .’ He stopped. ‘Is he really my father? My real father?’ he said, as if he’d heard the news for the first time.

  ‘Yes, Adam,’ Sir Ivo said patiently.

  ‘Then he did her wrong, and me too! He should have kept her better, and seen we weren’t hungry. Why didn’t he? Ashamed of her, I suppose. And me too.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Sir Ivo was watching him closely. ‘I wondered why he didn’t punish you when the dogs died. I’d expected him to.’

  ‘He said they were cursed. By that old man in Marseilles.’

  ‘He didn’t really believe that. And I saw how he watched you.’

  ‘Watched me!’

  ‘Yes. He was interested in you.’

  ‘Why didn’t he help us then?’

  ‘I think,’ Sir Ivo said hesitantly, ‘that he wished to keep all knowledge of you from Lady Ysabel. Lord Guy has many faults. What man doesn’t? But he’s been a kind husband to her.’

  Adam remembered the first meal he’d eaten in the great hall at Fortis, and how Lady Ysabel had stared at him.

  She suspected him, he thought.

  ‘Lord Robert doesn’t like all this.’ Adam’s thoughts had at last reached the point Sir Ivo had been waiting for. ‘He went mad. Did you see him? He’ll hurt me if he can. He hates me already because I stood up to him for Jennet.’

  ‘He will harm you if he can,’ Sir Ivo repeated, giving his words a solemn emphasis. ‘That’s why I want you to be careful, Adam. To think before you speak and act.’

  ‘Careful?’ Adam was hearing him at last. ‘How can I be, sir?’

  ‘Things will change for you now. Think.’ Sir Ivo leaned forwards and tapped Adam’s knee. ‘The position of the – I shall put it bluntly – the bastard son of a nobleman is never easy, especially as Lord Guy has no other legitimate son beside Robert. There are many people in the Fortis camp who dislike Robert. They dread his taking over from his father. They’ll see you as an opportunity. They’ll try to use you. They’ll make you a focus for their discontent.’

  ‘Me?’ Adam looked bewildered. ‘I don’t want anything like that.’

  He stopped. He didn’t know what he wanted. He’d never thought about it. He’d had no choices in his life, anyway. To serve Sir Ivo while the Crusade lasted had been his highest ambition up to now. To return to Ashton, take the lease of a little piece of land, work it with the help of Tom Bate – that had been all his expectation.

  ‘You’ll have a good manor when you return home. A fine piece of property,’ Sir Ivo put in, watching the struggle in his face. ‘It’ll be yours. You’ll own it.’

  ‘A manor? Me?’ Adam looked disbelieving. ‘Yes – I remember. Father Jerome said something. What is it? Where is it?’

  ‘Brockwood. A good place. Some forest, a fine house, a mill, fertile strips of land near the river, a village of fifty serfs or thereabouts—’

  ‘Serfs! I’m to own serfs? And a mill?’ The thought was so alarming that Adam recoiled. ‘I can’t own serfs! What would I do with them? They’d never respect me. I’m a serf myself. The poorest of them all.’

  ‘You’re a free man now. You’ll have to get used to the idea. But there’s no need to think of all that at present. You’ll have to be careful, Adam, as I said, if you are ever to come into your property. People in the Fortis camp will come to you, flatter you, try to use you for their own ends. Don’t be drawn in. Behave quietly and respectfully as you always have done. Keep to yourself. Don’t choose friends, and don’t make enemies. I’ll help you. If you agree, I’ll let it be known that you’re no longer my servant, but my squire. That you have no wish to be anything else for the time being. Stay close to me. I’ll show you how you should go on.’

  Adam suddenly felt as if his feet, which had been dangling helplessly over a deep abyss, had found a rock to rest upon.

  ‘It’s the truth, sir. I have no wish to be anything else. To be your squire, your real squire, it’s more, miles more, than I’d ever thought of.’

  He sat for a while in silence. ‘Is Lord Guy going to die?’

  ‘I don’t know, Adam. It’s in the hands of Our Lord.’

  ‘Because I’d like to see him again. Not to say anything much. I’d just like to look at the man who’s my father, and have him look at me.’

  Salim had watched the operation on the English baron’s head with revolted fascination at first, and then with increasing interest and admiration as Dr Musa and Dr John, the Frankish surgeon, worked together, delicately removing splinters of bone. The man had lost consciousness as soon as the doctors had started work. His eyes were shut and he lay quite still, his face deathly pale. Several times, Dr Musa had paused in his work to take his pulse and check that he was still breathing.

  The other Frankish doctor, the angry one, had withdrawn to a corner of the tent and was arguing in an enraged undertone with the tall, cold-looking priest. Outside, Salim could hear the low voices and chanted prayers of the Fortis people, who seemed determined to stay as near to their lord as possible. Once or twice, through the silence of the night, Salim winced at a distant crash, as one of the Crusaders’ vast catapults pounded the walls of Acre with boulders the size of sheep.

  There wasn’t much for him to do. After he had lit a little brazier and heated on it the irons needed to cauterize the edges of the baron’s skull, he was required only to stand by and pass the doctors anything they needed. There was plenty of time to think, and he kept going over in his mind the extraordinary scene he’d witnessed: the boy Adam, his face so white, hearing for the first time the true identity of his father, discovering that he was in fact the son of a noble lord.

  Why didn’t the lord take his mother as his second wife? Salim thought disgustedly. How could he abandon her like that, and ignore his own son? A Muslim would never do such a thing.

  Christians, he knew, had strange customs when it came to marriage. They could take only one wife at a time, and if they had concubines they hid them away, as if they were a shameful secret.

  How would I feel if Baba turned out not to be my father at all? he thought. Suppose I was the son of someone really famous? Saladin himself, maybe?


  The thought was so ridiculous that he smiled.

  ‘So you find all this amusing, do you?’ Dr Musa suddenly shot at him. ‘Wake up, boy, and pass me another swab.’

  At last, Dr John carefully stitched the flaps of the baron’s scalp together, and the two doctors straightened up, flexing their shoulders to relieve their cramped muscles. Salim held out a bowl of water to them in turn so that they could wash their hands. They examined Lord Guy’s pulse for the last time, gave orders that he should be left absolutely quiet to rest and walked out of the tent together.

  ‘It’s been a privilege to work with you,’ Dr John said enthusiastically. ‘If the outcome of this campaign is successful, perhaps we can meet again in Jerusalem.’

  A peculiar look crossed Dr Musa’s face.

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t look forward to that outcome,’ he said drily. ‘Last time Jerusalem was taken by the Franks the outcome for us Jews was, let us say, unfortunate.’

  Dr John flushed with embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was forgetting for a moment. This situation has brought us together in such an unexpected way! It would have given me great pleasure to invite you to take a glass of wine with me, but I regret that we’re reduced here to such straits that all I could offer you would be a beaker of water and a husk of dry bread.’

  Dr Musa shook his head.

  ‘This suffering! So needless! A period of calm reflection – some negotiation – I’ve urged such a course on the Sultan, peace be upon him.’

  ‘What was his response?’ Dr John asked eagerly. ‘What kind of man is he? One hears so many . . .’

  They passed out of Salim’s earshot.

  The circle of people outside moved forwards when they saw them coming.

  ‘How is he, doctor?’ someone called out. ‘Is he going to live?’

  ‘It’s in the hands of God,’ Dr John called back. ‘Pray for him.’