The oarsmen waited while one of their number set the rhythm, then pushed forward and down. They brought the dripping blades clear of the water, pulled back together, let the blades slice back into the sea and heaved on the long poles. The corpses that still floated were driven under or washed alongside the hull. Ter e Mer began to move. The galley came round in a wide arc, then turned more tightly as the starboard rowers reversed their stroke, while their counterparts kept the steady forward rhythm. The Saracen ship was less than a mile away and holding its course.
Aboard the Christian galley the soldiers ranged themselves along both sides of the forward deck. The bow tent was pulled down. Boxes of sand were stacked in the centre of the deck and against the bulwarks. Jars of vinegar were uncorked and roped to the rails, ready to combat a naphtha attack. While Reynald of Chatillon took command of the archers and men-at-arms, Camini moved along the central gangway to con the ship from the helm. Reynald found his crossbow, wound it, then laid it at his feet. He had regained full control of himself, licked the blood from his lips and now stood braced against the prow post. He did not know how they would tackle the huge Saracen vessel; Ter e Mer had been engaged in no actual naval conflicts, save last night’s running skirmish. But so long as there was a chance that Admiral Husam ed-Din Lulu was aboard, Reynald vowed he would find some way to scale the steep sides of the batseh.
By the time the distance between the ships had narrowed to half a mile the Crusaders had forgotten their fatigue and were impatient to loose the first bolts and arrows. There was no sign of activity aboard the Moslem ship; it held the same course, the same speed, as though convinced that Ter e Mer would soon move aside. The red and yellow sails still hung limp, perfect targets for the fire arrows. Reynald smiled. If Lulu was in command, he obviously believed that the Christian galley would make an easy victim. If the batseh had some other captain, the over-confident Moslem was in for a shock
The Frankish archers had already positioned two braziers on the forward deck. A few moments more and they would dip their pitch-tipped quarrels into the burning charcoal, raise the flaring barbs and send them arcing across the water. A few moments more, a few more yards, a few strokes of the oars…
One of the sailors had scaled the bare pine stern mast for a better view of the approaching craft. He reached the castellated lookout tower and clung, one leg hooked over the low wooden wall, unwilling to believe what he saw. Then, because he was a superstitious man, he gabbled a prayer before howling at Camini.
‘Captain!’
Camini squinted up at him.
‘Captain! It’s no warship! There are no soldiers! Captain, do you hear me?’
Camini thought he’d heard the sailor say it was not a warship, but that was impossible, he must have misheard.
‘What? Say it again!’ he called, then changed his mind and waved the man down. ‘Here. Get down here.’
The sailor slid down the pole, stumbled as he reached the deck and spoke before he had gained his balance.
‘It’s – it’s no batseh,’ he gasped. ‘Captain, I swear to you, it’s not even armed. The decks – they’re full of people, but there are no soldiers. I saw what I saw and—’
‘Then by hell’s teeth, what are they, troubadours? A ship of that size. No cargo vessel would take passengers. Unless—’
‘Yes,’ the sailor nodded, ‘unless the cargo were pilgrims. It must be a pilgrim ship! They are all standing there on deck, in the open. And Captain, I don’t believe – I mean, from what I saw—’
‘Yesss?’
‘I don’t believe they know us! Captain, I don’t think they know who we are!’
At that moment the Sicilian realised why his reputation could never match that of Lord Reynald’s. Camini was happy to plunder caravans, torture civilians for amusement, murder children if he must. Without hesitation he would rape women, burn crops and houses, leave innocent villagers destitute or dying. But, in the manner of the time he, too, was superstitious, obedient to the laws and signs of that godless religion. He could not bring himself to harm accredited pilgrims, however foreign their beliefs. He accepted that he must have killed some pilgrims at one time or another, such things were inevitable, but he knew that if he murdered these men in cold blood they would take the form of eagles and peck his eyes and testicles and feed off his liver.
He glared at the sailor, hoping that his nerve would fail and that he would admit he was mistaken. But the man’s story fitted too well with the innocent progress of the vessel, with the hanging sails and the general air of unpreparedness.
‘You say this on oath? Your life is forfeit if—’
‘I do, Captain. God save me, I do!’
‘Would you say as much to Prince Reynald?’
‘If I must, I suppose, but—’
‘You must. Come with me. Hurry, or we are all damned!’ Cradling his bandaged stump he strode along the gangway and climbed on to the forward deck.
Reynald turned, grinning.
‘Look at the sheets, Sicilian. Could we find a better bed for our arrows? Our work is done for us. I tell you—’
‘Tell me nothing, Prince. Listen to this man. You may not care to go ahead when you hear what he has to say.’ He nudged the sailor. ‘Spit it out!’
The terrified observer made his report. Camini nodded as he spoke and glanced anxiously at the shrinking channel that separated the vessels.
As Reynald listened his smile dissolved to nothing and he began to prod the luckless sailor, driving him back toward the gangway steps.
‘You’ve been hoodwinked, pirate,’ he snarled. ‘This man has no stomach for a fight. I remember him from the previous struggle. He would have us all be cowards, wouldn’t you, hmm? Hmm? Take him away before I dim his faulty eyes for good.’ He used his knife to herd the sailor down the wooden steps.
Camini said, ‘Coward or not, I believe him. It agrees—’
‘And I don’t.’
‘Prince, I ask you. Stop this while there’s time. We cannot risk it. We must first find out if there is any merit in the man’s story. ‘I’ll take the galley round to one side—.’
‘Oh, no. I want them to turn, not us. Leave things as they are.’
‘But they may be pilgrims!’
‘So this blind worm would have us think.’
‘I’m turning the ship.’
‘Stay still, Sicilian. You’ve played your part.’ He hefted his knife.
Camini held his own Turkish dagger. The two men stared at each other. The sailor stood at the foot of the steps, looking up at them. Then the corsair sighed and lowered the curved blade.
‘As you say, Prince.’
The next instant he brought his arm up again and stabbed wildly. Reynald, with a lifetime of distrust to warn him, leapt back. Camini’s dagger had slit the Crusader’s gambeson and drawn blood from his stomach. It was the last injury the pirate would ever inflict. Reynald laughed with shock, stepped forward and drove his knife into Camini’s throat. Camini whistled as he reeled away and collapsed against the foredeck rail. The Lord of Kerak left him to die in his own time and turned away, one hand held over his stomach. The wound was not deep and he decided to let it mend itself. The sailor had already fled to the farthest part of the ship. Reynald looked round for him, then laughed again. He did not feel vindictive, so allowed the blind and lying coward to escape.
Under the command of the Red Wolf of the Desert, the crew of the war galley Ter e Mer engaged those aboard the pilgrim ship in hand-to-hand combat. Undefended, the sides of the ship were not difficult to scale. Partly to assuage his fury at the news of Admiral Lulu’s victory near al-Hawra, and partly because he saw the opportunity to climax his Red Sea expedition with an act that Islam would long remember, Reynald of Chatillon set the pilgrim vessel alight and, for the loss of eleven Crusaders, killed in excess of three hundred Moslems. If any survived they did so without his knowledge, because Ter e Mer made two circuits of the blazing hulk, while he directed the attention of the
archers toward anything that moved in the water.
By midday the pilgrim ship had burned down to the waterline and the Christian galley was moving northward again, heading for the Gulf of Aqaba and the disembarkation port at the northern end of the Gulf. Throughout the voyage, Reynald was comforted by the thought that Mohammed would have difficulty in pulling his scorched and waterlogged believers to Paradise by their hair.
Chapter Two
The Dead Sea
June 1183
The road dipped, levelled, then dipped again. The horsemen who moved along it had travelled eighty miles in three days, though they were still two days short of their destination. They had now reached the western shore of the Dead Sea, the lowest place on earth.
The leader of the group raised his hand and motioned to the others to dismount. He could have called to them, but he was awed by the utter stillness of the scene and by the absolute silence. He had visited the place many times before, but each time was like the first. In truth, he was frightened that if he had voiced an order, no sound would have emerged from his mouth. His companions were grateful that he had not spoken, and climbed from their horses without a word.
They sniffed the salt air and stared at the turgid surface of the water. There were no fish in this narrow, inland sea, so no birds settled on its shores. A few bleached and stunted bushes dotted the otherwise barren rocks, while stiff reeds struggled for survival in the mouth of an occasional dry wadi. Nothing moved, save the shimmering waves of warm air that sucked the water with greedy lips.
The men watched each other, their eyes half closed against the white glare of the rocks and the flat deposits of salt. They frowned to mask their fear, but made no effort to break the silence. Then one of them tried to stifle a cough and failed, and they all heard the sound and laughed noisily. They moved their arms, took tentative steps along the beach, slapped their horses to make them stir. The man who had coughed forced himself to do it again, to remind his fellow knights that it was he who had made the first sound. Somebody spoke, commenting on the heat and then they were all talking unafraid.
There were fifteen of them, each dressed in a long surcoat, worn over a ringmail hauberk. Since leaving Jerusalem they had been tracked by a merciless June sun, which grew in strength as they moved southward. Their bodies continually ran with sweat. To combat the discomfort they had interrupted their journey twice a day, stripped naked and let the sun dry their skin and clothes. Then, temporarily refreshed, they had pulled on their leather gambesons, mail tunics and linen surcoats. Each time they shed their clothes they risked dehydration or a sudden chill, but the damp, slippery leather became unbearable and they welcomed a few moments respite from the heavy suits of mail.
Three of the fifteen might have dispensed with armour, but the other twelve had no choice. They were Knights of the Order of the Hospital of St John at Jerusalem. Known as the Knights Hospitaller, they were acting as escort to the three lay Crusaders. At any time the group might come under attack from a Saracen raiding party, or marauding Bedouin, so the Hospitallers rode ready-armed. Each protected his mail suit as best he could from the sun’s rays with the black surcoat of his Order, on which was stitched a white, split-pointed cross. In contrast, the lay knights wore white coats emblazoned with the straight scarlet cross of Christendom.
While half the escort stood guard, the rest helped each other out of their armour, then unbuckled the sodden gambesons. They turned the garments inside out and moved naked along the shore. One of the younger Hospitallers, who had not heard about the unique properties of Mare Mortuum looked at his companions for approbation, then strode into the water. They laughed as he floated on his back and waved to them. The water was so buoyant that he lay quite still, unable to sink. He stayed there until he was sure all his brother knights had seen him – Sir Guibert the Swimmer – then waded ashore, cool and pleased with himself.
Before he reached his clothes his skin turned white. His face and body were coated with salt, his eyes stung, his throat seemed to contract. Gasping, he ran for his waterskin. The Hospitallers roared with mirth; young Guibert would know better next time.
The trio who were not members of the military Order stripped off with the first members of the escort. The tallest of the three was well-proportioned, with thin, sandy hair. His face, neck and arms were burned, brown by long years in the Palestinian sun. He had lately indulged in the fashionable pastime of ‘sunning’, so his legs and torso were also tanned. The other two were unevenly brown, since they did not share his passion for rooftop exposure. One was short and slim, the other built like a fairground wrestler. Where the slim one was almost hairless, his powerful companion was covered with a hirsute black mat.
The first of the trio was Balian of Ibelin, Lord of Nablus and husband of the dowager Queen Maria Comnena, widow of the late King Amalric I of Jerusalem. Balian was also the younger of the respected Ibelin brothers. The elder, Baldwin, held the Seigneurie of Ramleh, some thirty miles south-west of Nablus. Their father had died a few years earlier and the family fortress of Ibelin had been given into the custody of their allies, the Hospitallers. But Baldwin had retained Ramleh, while Balian was content to govern his wife’s territories north of Jerusalem. The Ibelins, and in particular Balian, who kept a cooler head than his brother, were loyal to the reigning King of Jerusalem – a young leper, also named Baldwin – and to the Christian cause. This alone set them against many of the Frankish overlords, who saw something shameful in paying homage to a twenty-two-year old monarch whom they regarded as nothing more than a diseased idealist. Paramount among these disaffected Crusaders was the man Balian was on his way to see, Reynald of Chatillon, Lord of Kerak.
The second, slim one of the three was Balian’s squire, a young, native-born Frank named Ernoul. He was a witty and intelligent observer, and would be remembered by history as an authoritative chronicler of his times. However, this was in the future. For the moment he was content to toss chips of salt into the saline water.
The last was the Constable of Nablus and Balian’s personal bodyguard, Fostus. He was forty-five years of age, a descendant of Cornish peasants and Welsh mercenaries, and as hard as iron. He was, in all, the barbican gate to Lord Balian’s keep. To stand within a sword’s length of the Lord of Nablus was to have first gained the confidence of his massive protector. For twenty years Fostus had guarded the Ibelin family. The fact that they had risen from obscurity to occupy a deserved position as one of the leading houses in Palestine was in part due to the unceasing vigilance of Constable Fostus. But he, too, had relaxed momentarily and was teasing Ernoul by hurling huge lumps of rock farther than the squire could throw his chips.
‘Go on,’ he growled, ‘put your shoulder to it. What does that piece represent, a bird’s egg?’
Ernoul shrugged and attempted to make the stone skim the water. It was not flat enough and sank without bouncing. Fostus decided it marked the limit of the young man’s strength. He shook his head in despair and sent his own rock spinning far out to sea.
‘No competition,’ he grumbled, moving away to challenge the Hospitallers.
Balian came down to the water’s edge. Ernoul pointed to a high plateau beyond the far shore and asked, ‘Is that where we’re going?’
Balian nodded. ‘I forgot. You’ve not been to Kerak before.’
‘No. And from what I’ve heard of it I would have no wish to go there alone. Too many, they say, have gone in and never been seen again.’ Looking round, he added, ‘it’s small wonder that Lord Reynald thinks himself a king in his own country. He’s so far from the centre of things.’
‘In body, perhaps,’ Balian said, ‘but if you were to light a fire back there,’ – he jerked his head in the direction of Jerusalem – ‘say on King David’s Tower, it would be seen from the walls of Kerak.’
‘But that’s – it must be forty miles!’
‘Nearer fifty. But how else do you think he could summon the royal army so promptly when the Saracens threaten? Still your
impatience for two more days and you’ll allow Lord Reynald his self-deception. Any man who was made master of Kerak would feel like a king. Even you, I daresay, skin-and-bone. It’s in the nature of the place. The fortress alone is the size of a city.’
‘It’s possible,’ Ernoul admitted dourly, ‘but Lord Reynald is not a monarch and is unlikely – God preserve His Kingdom – to become one. Master of a city-castle or not, if the reports about the pilgrim ship are to be believed – and King Baldwin appears to believe them, then Reynald is no better than the pirates he employs. Does he really think that God would countenance such an action?’
‘I doubt if he consulted God,’ Balian said. ‘God rules in Heaven. Mohammed rules in Paradise. We have the courageous Leper King to rule us in Jerusalem. Reynald rules – well, these days where he pleases. He would only accept God’s blessing if it came with a consignment of weapons.’
‘If he rules where he pleases he should call himself a Bedouin and not a Crusader.’
‘Be cautious,’ Balian murmured. ‘Don’t find fault so readily with those who take the Cross. Very few could draw a clean sword; certainly not I.’
‘That may be so, my lord. But you must grant that Reynald of Chatillon goes beyond the pale of normal human failings. I’m not talking about a petty grudge, or an open act of war. I mean the way in which he murdered hundreds of innocent pilgrims.’
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 2
