Crusade Page 26

  ‘Aiee! What have we come to? What curse has fallen on us?’

  His heart sank. He knew that wailing tone. When once his mother started in that vein, she could go on for hours.

  ‘Mama!’ he shouted, shaking her arm. ‘There’s no time!’

  She pulled herself together with an effort.

  ‘Zahra. I told you. Fetch her,’ she said. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  His little sister was lying on her back, fast asleep, her arms above her head, her soft black hair spread out on the mat, as still as an abandoned doll. He was so shocked at the sight of her stick-like arms and pale little face that he could hardly bear to touch her in case she broke in his arms.

  ‘Zahra!’ he whispered. ‘It’s me, habibti. Salim. Wake up. Come on, now. We’ve got to go.’

  She opened her eyes and then her face puckered, and the corners of her mouth turned down.

  ‘Not Salim,’ she said crossly. ‘Salim gone away.’

  He scooped her up, shocked at her lightness, and settled her against his shoulder. To his relief she relaxed against him and snuggled her head into his neck. He knew that her thumb had wandered towards her mouth.

  He hurried outside. His mother was tottering across towards his father.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ she asked fearfully as they crossed the courtyard. ‘What’s going to happen to us? When are we coming home again?’

  ‘Come on, Mama.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Baba, come.’

  It seemed an age before he had coaxed his parents out into the street, and another before his father had locked the door with shaking hands and fumbled the key into a pocket of his cloak.

  The crowd of thin, desperate people outside the door had grown.

  ‘Salim, take us too! My daughter, look at her!’

  ‘Just take the baby, the little one, Salim. You remember me, how I used to give you honey cakes?’

  He ignored them all. Dragging his mother by the hand, holding Zahra over his shoulder and praying that his father was following, he pushed his way through, murmuring, ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me. You’ll be saved soon, inshallah. The Sultan, peace be upon him, hasn’t forgotten you.’

  He had no idea how much time had passed. It seemed as if he was in a nightmare, his feet weighed down so that he could only drag them slowly.

  The gates were ahead of him at last.

  ‘Leave her alone, Auntie!’ he shouted to a woman who was clinging, sobbing to his mother’s arm. ‘Let her go!’

  Suddenly, Ali was there, pushing through the crowd. ‘Salim! What’s happened? How did you get in here?’

  ‘Ali! Al hamdi l’illah! Thank God! I thought I wouldn’t see you. I’ve got a safe conduct for Mama and Baba.’

  Ali’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘You’ve got a what?’

  ‘A permit. Listen, there’s no time. If we’re not out of here in the next few minutes we won’t be able to go at all.’ He grabbed Ali’s arm. ‘Come with us! Don’t ask the commander. Just come!’

  Ali bit his lip in a moment of agonized indecision.

  ‘Idiot,’ he said at last. ‘You know I can’t. There aren’t nearly enough of us as it is. It’ll be touch and go at the next big assault.’ He shook his head, as if trying to rid it of the thought of escape. ‘Anyway, we’re working on a new thing. A new method of shooting with Greek fire. It’s going to slaughter them. Dozens of barbarian devils up in smoke in one go. You’ll see.’

  His enthusiasm was feverish. His eyes burned in his thin face. Salim was struck with a cruel pang of guilt.

  ‘I ought to be here with you!’ he cried, putting Zahra down. ‘I should be helping! Look, I’ll stay. We’ll all be together.’

  ‘Ali! My son!’ Khadijah, who had been embracing her neighbour, was clinging to Ali now and crying. Zahra had been quiet up till now, but she sat down on the ground and began to cry, her voice a pale, weak thread.

  ‘Don’t be such a fool, little brother,’ Ali said, trying to detach his mother. ‘You’re being a bigger hero than me. Getting them out of here’s a miracle.’

  He picked Zahra up and put her into Salim’s arms. From the other side of the great wooden doors, came a drum roll and distant shouts.

  ‘Go on! Just go!’ Ali was shoving Salim towards the postern, which someone had opened.

  Salim was about to step out of the narrow door when an idea struck him. He pulled the safe conduct out from his belt and thrust it into Ali’s hands.

  ‘Take it. It’s the permit. Your name’s on it. It might be useful later.’

  Ali grinned as he took it.

  ‘Well done, little brother.’ There was admiration in his voice. ‘Go on. Quick.’

  The drums were beating again on the Frankish lines.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ Salim called back to Ali. ‘Ma’a salama. God go with you.’

  ‘And with you. Hurry, Mama. Goodbye, Baba.’

  Pulled from the front by Salim and pushed from behind by Ali, Salim’s parents were over the threshold at last and the postern gate was shut behind them. His mother, facing the entire Crusader army in front of her without the protection of the massive city walls, staggered and seemed about to fall.

  ‘Ya haram,’ she kept saying. ‘Ya haram! God be merciful!’

  ‘Come on,’ Salim said, his voice sharp with anxiety. His father was standing in a daze, looking round the wide open space like a lost child. Zahra, twisting in his arms, had set up a high-pitched wail. Salim shifted her higher up his shoulder. ‘Help Baba, Mama. Come on!’

  With a visible effort, Khadijah summoned up her courage.

  ‘Go on ahead of us, Salim,’ she said in an almost steady voice. ‘Show us where to go. Look after Zahra. I’ve got your father.’

  The few hundred metres to the Crusader front line seemed even further to Salim now. The brief ceasefire was over already. The Flemish captain, ignoring the slow-moving little band of escapees, had already lifted his sword in signal. The long arm of the catapult was moving once more, gaining momentum as it swept upwards.

  Adam watched the little group make its way painfully across the open ground. He saw the feeble figure of the man behind Salim totter and fall. The woman bent over him, helplessly talking to him. Without thinking, Adam dashed forwards into no-man’s-land, bent down, picked up the man and slung him over his shoulder as easily as if he’d been a sack of flour. He ran back with him towards Sir Ivo.

  ‘Young fool,’ Sir Ivo said crossly, as Adam set Adil back on his feet, but he put out his arm to steady Adil, who seemed unable to stand unaided.

  Adam had already run back out to help Khadijah, but she had broken into a lumbering trot and was keeping up with Salim. He was concentrating on holding Zahra, who, in spite of her weakness, was thrashing about in his arms in panic.

  The men-at-arms watched stony-faced as the little family reached them.

  ‘All this trouble for them?’ Adam heard Peter Doggett mutter, as he raised his helmet to scratch at a wandering louse. ‘Two old crocks and a screaming kid? I thought at least it’d be someone noble.’

  Salim had put Zahra down and was already trying to help his father on to Suweida’s back. Sir Ivo, seeing him struggle, picked Adil up bodily and hoisted him into the saddle. The man seemed on the point of collapse. His face was grey and his eyes half shut.

  ‘We’ll be safe soon, Baba,’ Salim was murmuring to him. ‘Don’t worry. There’ll be a good meal waiting for you. Dr Musa, he’ll put you right. Just hold on, Baba. It won’t be long.’ He turned to his mother. ‘You can ride behind Baba,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll help you.’

  To his surprise she shook her head.

  ‘And make a spectacle of myself in front of all these infidels? Like an old woman going to market? Your father needs more help than me. Give me your arm, Salim. I’ll manage on foot. Zahra, behave yourself. Stop making that noise or the Christians will get you.’

  Terrified, Zahra stopped crying mid-sob. Her eyes opened wide with fear and she wrapped her
arms round Salim’s good knee.

  ‘The woman intends to walk?’ Sir Ivo said to Salim, surprised.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Salim answered. ‘She can, I think. She will lean on my arm.’

  ‘Adam, carry the child,’ Sir Ivo said briskly. ‘We must get moving. We’ve been here long enough. The mule’s attracting too much attention.’

  Adam bent down towards Zahra.

  She shuddered, shut her eyes tight and clung to Salim’s leg with even greater ferocity.

  Salim bent down too.

  ‘You’ve got to let him carry you, habibti,’ he whispered. ‘The big knight says so. I can’t manage you any more. The boy, he’s called Adam. It’s an Arabic name. He won’t hurt you.’

  Zahra dared peep round at Adam.

  ‘Nasty,’ she said. ‘Christian.’

  ‘How can he be? He’s got a Muslim name! He must be Muslim!’ Salim said soothingly, glad that Dr John was out of earshot and no one else could understand.’

  ‘Adam,’ Zahra said experimentally, and when Salim picked her up and passed her into Adam’s arms, she subsided without more fuss.

  Curious looks followed the party all the way back through the camp. To Adam’s relief the little girl quickly settled down. The woman, Salim’s mother, had set her face in an expression of impassive dignity as she walked between the tents of her enemies, leaning on Salim from time to time, or holding on to the mule’s saddle, but always holding her head high.

  She’s brave, Adam thought, trying to imagine how Jennet would feel if she had to march right through the camp of the Saracens.

  They reached the English quarters at last. The men-at-arms dispersed, shaking their heads over the folly of the exercise. Salim turned round as they reached the embankment and bowed formally to Sir Ivo. He’d been preparing a little speech of thanks and he wanted to deliver it.

  ‘Sir knight,’ he said politely. ‘My father and mother want thanks to you. Very great . . .’ He paused, forgetting the word for ‘obligation’. ‘Very good and kind. Inshallah one day I can pay you in my thanks and my families also.’

  Sir Ivo grinned.

  ‘So these are your parents, eh? I suspected as much. You’re an enterprising lad, I must say. I admire your courage. Good luck to you. I hope your father gets his health back soon.’

  Salim bowed again.

  ‘And your lord,’ he said. ‘With Allah help, he make good repair.’

  ‘Go on with you now.’ Sir Ivo’s eyebrows had twitched together at the mention of Allah. He slapped the mule on the rump. ‘Greet the doctor for us. Tell him again how grateful we are.’

  Adam led Suweida by the bridle through the gap in the embankment.

  ‘Ma’a salama,’ Zahra called out to him, waving her hand as she’d been taught. ‘Goodbye!’

  ‘You very kind boy. Very good,’ Salim said to Adam, grasping his hand. His smile radiated such joy and relief that Adam felt warmed by its glow. ‘I see you again one day maybe, when . . .’

  He stopped. His smile faded. When we’ve liberated Acre and this war is over, he’d wanted to say.

  Adam was no longer smiling either.

  When what? he was thinking. When we’ve taken Acre and Jerusalem and driven you infidels out?

  The abyss had opened between them again.

  But Adam watched half regretfully as the Kurdish troop, who had been waiting all this while, ran down from the Saracen camp to escort the family to safety.

  It was April again. The nights were cool but the days were already hot. The Crusaders were thankful that the endless rain had stopped, and the mixture of mud and sewage in which they’d lived all winter was drying up, but they dreaded the return of summer, the searing heat and the dust storms, the scorpions and biting flies and the epidemics of sickness that they knew would afflict them.

  ‘A few more months of this and we’ll be so weak that the Saracens will walk all over us,’ Adam heard Sir Ivo mutter, in a rare moment of depression.

  ‘King Richard’s on his way. He must be here soon, sir,’ Adam reminded him, anxious to cheer him up.

  But it was Philip, the King of France, who arrived first. His eight ships made a magnificent show as they scudded on the spring breeze towards the beach, their pennants flying. The French camp celebrated their king’s arrival long into the night, with fanfares of trumpets and raucous singing. For days afterwards dukes, earls, counts, barons and bishops from a dozen different nations donned their most impressive armour and went to pay him homage.

  Sir Ivo, though, was not impressed.

  ‘He’s no more use than a glass sword,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Richard’s the only man who can take Acre. He’ll crack it like a nut. If he ever gets here.’

  Nothing worried Adam more than Sir Ivo’s pessimism. He had come to rely on the knight absolutely. In all his life, he’d never known a feeling like it.

  It was eighteen months now since Sir Ivo had taken him under his wing, and Adam thanked God for it every time he heard the bell ring outside the church tent. He’d shared a tent with the knight all that time, had seen him shiver with fever, wake with a hangover, fume with rage, grumble at the weather and heap curses on the infidel Saracens, but he had never known him do a mean thing, or lose faith in the Crusade, or join in the malicious gossip that ran round the camp, or unjustly accuse anyone to cover up his own fault. He had never seen him lack courage, or shirk a difficult, boring or dangerous task.

  He was watching Jennet one afternoon, as she draped a batch of fresh linen over the poles of a wagon, when Jacques suddenly appeared. To Adam’s disgust, Tibby raised her arms and crowed when she saw him, displaying two rows of pearly new teeth. Jacques reached inside his cloak, which was now so tattered it hung from his shoulders in shreds, pulled out a little cake and gave it to her.

  ‘Why if it isn’t me old friend Adam Fitz Guy,’ he said, bowing with a flourish. ‘Not too proud yet to talk to your humbler acquaintance, I do trust?’

  Adam had almost lost his fear of Jacques, but the man still made his flesh creep with disgust.

  ‘Didn’t I see you, last week, up by the Saracen camp, talking to a pair of Turks? Crooks they looked too,’ Adam said suspiciously.

  Jacques laughed.

  ‘A pair of Turks? My, how wicked you make them sound! Trading gentlemen, they was, my dear boy. Base unbelievers they may be, but every man must live. They buys and sells, sells and buys, same as your humble servant.’

  ‘Buys and sells what?’ Jennet said eagerly. ‘They haven’t got any lotions, have they? Only Tibby’s got a rough patch on her neck she keeps scratching at.’

  ‘Lotions? Why didn’t you tell me before, my darling? Got to keep little miss here in prime condition, haven’t we?’

  There was something about the way he patted Tibby’s yellow curls that made Adam’s gorge rise.

  It’s like he owns her, he thought.

  ‘You still haven’t said what you were buying,’ he said, scowling. ‘From the Turks, God curse them.’

  Jacques’s eyes narrowed till they looked like splinters of green glass.

  ‘Still as narrow-minded as ever, I see! And I thought you were so friendly with that Saracen boy. It’s the Martel blood coming out. Norman blood. You need to take care, young Adam. Hot-headed and blinkered as a packhorse, that’s your typical Norman lord. I can see it now. You’ll go charging into battle alongside that priggish knight of yours and get yourself spitted on a Saracen lance. While I, like a sensible man, will add my mite to the cause by sending up prayers to Christ’s Mother from the safety of the baggage train.’

  He laughed mockingly at the disgusted look on Adam’s face.

  ‘Duty calls, my dear ones. Business is business. Someone has to keep the art of honest trading from dying out.’

  The next moment he’d gone as suddenly as he’d come.

  Adam felt confused. Unwelcome thoughts, which had recently been bubbling up from deep down in his mind, rose again to the surface.

  I’m not frien
dly with that Saracen boy, he told himself. He’s an infidel. It would be a sin.

  But an uncomfortable feeling pricked at him as he thought of Salim’s family.

  Is it really right to starve old people and children? I know what Sir Ivo would say, that they ought to recognize Christ as their saviour, and worship him, and give up their wicked religion. But they’re foreigners. You can’t expect them to know what’s what. It doesn’t seem fair.

  He tried, as he so often did, to recapture the glorious certainty of the night at Fortis when he’d taken the cross. It was harder and harder to warm the ashes of the fire that had burned in him then.

  It’ll be different if we ever get to Jerusalem, he told himself. It must be like heaven there. The Holy Sepulchre, where Christ was buried, and the place where he walked, carrying the Cross, and the garden where he wept tears. If only I could see all of that this would be worth it.

  It was nearly two months since Lord Guy had fallen from his horse, and his anxious people were beginning to despair of his recovery. The baron sat all day in the entrance of his pavilion, smiling vaguely at those who came near him, a trickle of saliva running down his chin. Every now and then a flash of his old self returned, and he barked out orders, demanded explanations and was so much in control that he seemed on the brink of a complete recovery. But after an hour or two the listlessness would return, and he would sit rubbing the stubble on his head, as if he was wondering where his thick hair had gone.

  It was well known in the camp that Lord Robert and Dr Nicholas still clung to the theory that a demon had entered the baron through his wound and that he wouldn’t become his old self again until it was let out. They’d begged Father Jerome to perform an exorcism, but the priest had steadfastly refused.

  ‘There are no clear signs of demonic possession,’ he said sharply to Lord Robert. ‘Confusion and weakness after a head injury are to be expected. I haven’t noticed you doing penance for his recovery. Do so, and let Christ perform his healing task in his own time.’

  ‘That priest never liked me,’ Lord Robert muttered to Dr Nicholas, as Father Jerome stalked away. ‘He’s always been against me.’ He looked up, saw that Adam was nearby and shot him a spiteful look. ‘The dog boy’s no more my father’s son than you are, Dr Nicholas,’ he said, raising his voice so that Adam would be sure to hear. ‘Witchcraft, that’s what this is about. If we could only let the demon out of my father’s head he’d be his old self again. They’d believe me then. The boy would burn for a witch, like he deserves.’