The Last Emir

by The Last Emir (retail) (epub)

  Arnau stared. ‘What?’

  ‘I will see a doctor in due course, but for now I am bleeding badly. It needs stitching so that I will last long enough to seek proper attention. Quick now, or I will lose too much blood and become faint.’

  Arnau shook his head. ‘I’ve never stitched a wound. In fact the only time I’ve ever stitched anything was the tunics and robes of the order after the siege last year. And I did such a bad job I was told to find something else to do.’

  ‘I cannot stitch it myself, because I cannot reach there. And I do not wish to faint. If you have no thread, you will find that I carry needle and thread in my pouch.’

  Arnau, feeling faintly nauseous already at the prospect of what he must do, found the old knight’s pouch and fished around until he rather painfully located the needle and thread. His tongue protruding from the side of his mouth, he inexpertly threaded the needle and then looked back down at the wound, feeling a little sicker with each moment.

  ‘I can’t see it properly. It’s so messy. So much blood.’

  Balthesar cast a scathing look at him. ‘Have you not noticed what I am sat upon? Use your head, Vallbona.’

  Arnau nodded unhappily and tucked the needle carefully into his sleeve as he scooped up water from the trough and splashed it over the wound. Four times he repeated the process before he could clearly see the rent in the old knight’s flesh.

  ‘All right. Here I go.’

  He leaned close and, wincing, pushed the needle into the skin. He almost lurched back at the yelp of pain from his companion, and fresh blood welled up from the wound.

  ‘Damnation, but I cannot see it again. More blood.’

  ‘Then use more water,’ Balthesar hissed. Arnau did so, washing the wound clean again, and then braced himself and pushed the needle through and up, back, out of the skin on the far side of the wound. The old man breathed heavily and grunted, but sat still. Arnau made the second stitch and was then forced to pause and use more water. Having done so, he pulled the stitches tight, making Balthesar hiss in pain. With a deep breath he went in for the next stitch.

  It took him a quarter of an hour in total to put in ten stitches and seal the wound. When he had finished, he leaned back to appraise his handiwork.

  ‘How does it look?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Like you were attacked by a blind seamstress. Not good.’

  ‘Is it leaking?’

  Arnau splashed another handful of water over it. The last of the red washed away and only a few droplets remained on the wound. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then it will do. One last piece of work and we can move. See that shop over there?’

  Arnau looked where Balthesar’s pointing finger indicated. A small shop sat between heavy-walled houses, selling all sorts of culinary delights. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Take money from my pouch and buy honey.’

  Baffled, the young sergeant did as he was commanded, crossing the street. The shopkeeper was sitting far to the back in the shade, filling jars with olives from a large bowl. Arnau ignored him and looked around for only a moment before he spotted what appeared to be honey. He took it to the man and greeted him politely in stilted Arabic.

  ‘Honey?’ he asked. The man looked at him blankly. Arnau pointed at the bottle and placed it on the table before attempting a childish impression of a bee, buzzing as he walked in circles, flapping his hands up and down.

  ‘Assel,’ grinned the shopkeeper and nodded, chuckling to himself.

  Arnau handed over his coin, took the change and the bottle and thanked the shopkeeper before leaving. Once more across the street, he held it up.

  ‘Smear it on the wound and then use it to stick a strip of torn material on it. It will act as a dressing until a doctor can work his miracles.’

  Arnau, frowning, did so, washing the sticky substance from his hands afterwards in the slightly pink water trough.

  ‘It is an old method. Older than Christ, in fact.’

  ‘What now?’ Arnau said as he let the clothes drop back into place and the old Templar rose to his feet stiffly with a grunt.

  ‘Now we find a place to stay. The day is moving on. I think we need to ponder on our next move with the Al-Mudaina, and we would be better doing that somewhere safe.’

  ‘You have somewhere in mind?’

  The knight nodded. ‘I do.’

  Chapter Ten

  Tuesday, 8 June 1199

  3.20 p.m.

  ‘This place will be safe?’ Arnau asked. ‘You realise that the Lion and his men will be investigating? Looking into our presence.’

  ‘It is, I promise you, the last place Abd al-Azīz will ever look.’

  Something about the way he said that worried Arnau even more. ‘Do you really think those thugs were in his pay?’ he said by way of a change in subject.

  Balthesar made a ‘so-so’ motion with his hand. ‘Let’s just say that I am not ruling out the possibility.’

  ‘But why would he send criminals after us when he has perfectly good soldiers?’

  ‘Do not forget, Vallbona, that he is not free to do as he pleases in this place. Mayūrqa is still the emir’s domain. Setting his soldiers on someone without permission from the emir could just be the sort of provocation that triggers something he cannot afford to start with so few men on the island. No, I think his chasing after us was impulsive and he quickly reined his men in. I suspect he made a few swift enquiries of local eyes and ears and sent out men to pick up our trail. We spent long enough nursing our tea that it is possible we picked up a tail even then and they followed us, simply waiting for us to be out of the public’s eye somewhere. No, it is too coincidental, I think, to be anything other than Almohad work.’

  Arnau sank into gloomy silence once more. ‘That suggests that nowhere we go will be truly safe.’

  ‘No,’ Balthesar agreed. ‘Nowhere is truly safe. But we must do what we can with what the Lord gifts us. This would be an excellent time for you to practise a taciturn nature. Where we are going we will once more be Moors.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Do you know of waqf?’

  ‘Of course I don’t know of waqf,’ Arnau said, faintly annoyed at the way Balthesar seemed to have sunk naturally into the culture while expecting Arnau to keep up.

  ‘Waqf is the practice of donating property to religious groups for charity. They are a little like Christian almshouses. Often, waqf results in hostels that are maintained under the administration of the local imam and are used to house the poor, the sick and the wretched. We are both poor, and I am sick,’ he added, gesturing to his side.

  ‘Are you perchance intimating that I am wretched?’ Arnau sighed.

  Balthesar just smiled. ‘There is a waqf institution not far from here. I stayed with them when I first came to the island. I am not sure what their regulations would be about charity to Christians – I suspect the subject has never arisen – but whether they would be agreeable or not, we need to disappear from the public eye right now, and being poor Moors in a hostel seems a good choice. Certainly a waqf house would not appear on any list of places Abd al-Azīz will think to look.’

  Arnau acknowledged the point unhappily. The prospect of evenings spent in silence listening only to constant chatter in an unintelligible tongue was not a pleasant one. A thought occurred to him.

  ‘If we’re Moors, we will have to pray.’

  ‘We will,’ the old knight agreed. ‘Fortunately even the most rabid zealot would not expect a mute to speak the words, so you will simply have to go through the motions. So long as you can kneel, bow, raise your hands and suchlike you need not worry too much.’

  Arnau glanced ahead. The ritual early-afternoon nap had begun to end, and people were emerging from their houses and shops. The streets were starting to fill once more and Arnau fell silent as they moved unnoticed through the crowd. His eyes continually flitted this way and that furtively, attempting to identify anyone who might be watching or shadowing them with
malicious intent. Logic said no one was currently following them. Even if those attackers back near the mosque had been in the Lion’s pay, none had escaped with their life, so the trail must now be truly lost. Yet it did not do to be complacent.

  The waqf house lay not far from the Gumāra fortress at the edge of town, nestled close to the powerful walls. Arnau was somewhat surprised by its appearance. As a charitable property to house the poor and the hungry, he had pictured somewhere run-down and similarly impoverished, perhaps an old house that had seen better days.

  The Moor who had donated this place to the mosque had clearly been a very wealthy man, if he could afford to part with such a place. Its façade was of decorated stone, three storeys high and with delicate arches and many glazed windows. As they approached from the south, he caught a view of the side of the building, which was of timber construction but similarly decorative and rich regardless. It appeared to be square-shaped, constructed around a courtyard, and the only word Arnau could easily find to describe it was palatial. This place must have been a noble’s home before he generously donated it.

  The young sergeant tried not to goggle, wide eyed, as they moved towards the entrance, a doorway with a red and white stone horseshoe arch and a sign above it in elegant Arabic script. He wanted to speak to Balthesar, to question him, but he needed to remain silent.

  Inside, a Moor in a simple white robe emerged from some gloomy side door and greeted the older man who stood to the fore, nodding respectfully at Arnau also. The young sergeant returned the gesture. Had it not been for the danger inherent in their situation, he would have found the place fascinating, but he was dreading the call to prayer, certain he would get something wrong. While he fretted, the two older men had a brief exchange in friendly-sounding, high-speed Arabic.

  At one point during the exchange, Balthesar showed his bound wound to the man, and elicited sympathy, suggesting that it was the old man’s injury that had bought them admittance, or at least that and the poor stupid mute he relied upon. When the conversation apparently reached some sort of satisfactory conclusion, the man in white beckoned and led them in through another archway. This one opened into a wide hall, set up with long tables and benches. The administrator explained something to them which, of course, flew entirely over Arnau’s head, though he was willing to wager it was something along the lines of this being the refectory. Another arch from here admitted bright sunshine, and it was through this they next moved out into the courtyard. Arnau’s awe reached new heights at the delights of the courtyard. A wide, paved space, it was surrounded on three sides by wooden balconies with delicate arcades and many doors, and on the other by that high stone frontage. Colourful plants grew in shapely terracotta pots around the edge, but the bulk of the courtyard was occupied by a large pool. Some fifty feet across by perhaps forty long, it also looked surprisingly deep, a more than adequate home to the myriad fish swimming around in it. A fountain at one end fed into the pool, its drain presumably hidden beneath the paving, for of it the young sergeant could see no sign.

  This was a home for the poor? Arnau had stayed in well-appointed mansions that looked impoverished by comparison. His fears about staying here were gradually abating. He’d have to be silent and careful, yes, and he would have to wear the mask of a Moor, but at least it would be comfortable.

  Through another arch at the far end they reached another large hall, this one well carpeted and elegant. Realising what it was in time, Arnau stopped before walking into it, as did the other two for, if not an actual mosque, this was clearly a place to pray and therefore no place for his boots.

  They went back out into the courtyard, following an explanation by the administrator, and then moved through a side arch and found a staircase that climbed both wooden storeys of the building. On the upper floor they were led to a room overlooking the street outside, with a view that took in a small bathhouse and part of the city walls. Another brief chat between the other two men and they were finally left alone.

  Balthesar waited a score of heartbeats after the door closed, and then also closed the shutters on the outer window before sinking onto one of the two beds.

  ‘This will be more than adequate,’ he smiled. ‘And with so many rooms, it appears that occupancy is not high. We have no neighbours – I told the man that you snored terribly and it bought us extra privacy. So, as long as we check the balcony outside beforehand and keep door and shutters closed, we can talk quietly.’

  Arnau breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I am worried about the prayers.’

  ‘Do not be. I know the form, you do not need to. Just follow the actions of those around you and remain silent. We shall stay at the rear so we are not observed, while you can see all those in front. Very simple. And we have missed the dhuhr prayer. The next call will be asr, and we shall be absent for that, and possibly also for the maghrib call at sunset. The only one you need concern yourself with is the final prayer of the day, when it is dark.’

  ‘Why will we miss the next two prayers?’ Arnau frowned.

  ‘Because, my young friend, I need now to see a doctor, and then we shall return to the lair of the Lion. It is time to search the records once more.’

  With a sigh of regret at having secured such comfortable lodgings and then leaving them immediately without a chance to rest, Arnau rose to his feet once more. Following Balthesar from the room, they descended the stairs and crossed the courtyard once more, through the refectory and out into the sunshine. Balthesar clearly knew where he was going, perhaps directed by an earlier comment of the administrator, and they found the house of a doctor three streets away.

  The man, whose house backed on to some sort of communal hospital, accepted a nominal payment from Balthesar and examined the wound briefly. Though Arnau clearly could not understand his words, his manner and actions suggested that Arnau’s stitching left a great deal to be desired, and would leave an impressive scar. There was some probing, and many questions, but the doctor seemed on the whole satisfied that his patient would heal in due course. He spent some time cleaning up the wound and then re-dressing it in a more professional manner. In the end, after half an hour, the two men left the small hospital satisfied.

  They then, at Balthesar’s instigation, took a somewhat circuitous walk, close to the walls and past the Gumāra fortress, to the southern ramparts that overlooked the sea, though from their perspective all they could observe was the inside of the high, powerful walls. Here was yet another area of agricultural land, crops growing in abundance, confirming how easily and for how long Madina could withstand a siege. They passed into a built-up area once more, and then, ahead, Arnau spotted the high, square brick tower of the great mosque in the centre.

  Biting down on his rising nerves, he followed Balthesar past the street of shops down which they had run for their lives mere hours ago. As they neared the mosque, a voice began to ring out from its minaret. The lilting chant that rose in the call to prayer was instantly joined by other voices across the city and rose like an aural tide. In every street, the city’s population finished off what they were doing, locked doors and began to move towards their local mosques. Not all went, Arnau noticed. Clearly the emir’s guards he could see on the walls would not abandon their duty to attend, and there would clearly be many others who could not spare their time.

  Such was clearly the case at the Al-Mudaina. They approached the palace from the south-east, making for that second door through which they had entered with the disgruntled clerk.

  ‘What do we do?’ Arnau whispered as they passed the mosque, his low tones muffled beneath the surge of people heading to their prayer and the warbling call of the imam above.

  ‘I don’t think we have much choice this time,’ Balthesar sighed. ‘Danger or no danger, we are in no position to wait. The chances of seeing our friendly clerk once more are impressively small, and there is no real chance to sneak in. I fear our best option is to brazenly approach and beg permission to search the archives.’

 
‘Drawing attention to ourselves might be a terrible idea, especially here.’

  ‘Agreed, but we are forced to play off peril against speed. To make ourselves known is certainly more dangerous than to be subtle and circumspect, but means we can be in and out faster. Waiting around for a better option as we did last time is less perilous, but every passing hour carries the risk of discovery, and with Abd al-Azīz now aware that we are in the city and have been in the palace, he will be watchful. Come, and button those lips once more.’

  Arnau unhappily followed the older brother over to the gate, where Balthesar lifted the heavy iron knocker and rapped it twice on the door. There was a pause, and a hatch in the door protected by a solid iron grille clicked open. The face of a swarthy, clearly ill-humoured guard appeared and barked a question at them.

  Balthesar greeted the man and spoke at length in Arabic. The guard grunted and the hatch clonked shut. There was a long pause, during which Balthesar seemed disinclined to move and Arnau could not enquire what was happening, and then finally the hatch opened once more. Whatever the guard said sounded positive, and bolts were thrown back and the gate opened.

  The grey knight stepped inside, bowed and thanked the man, and Arnau followed him in with a polite nod of the head. His eyes immediately raked the courtyard, searching for the Lion of Alarcos and his men. The Lion himself might not be watching for them, but a black-and-white figure stood not far from the gate. By the merest chance, he had been engaged in an argument with one of the emir’s soldiers and had his back to them, oblivious to their passing. Nevertheless, Arnau attracted Balthesar’s attention with a tug of the sleeve, and they hurried through the courtyard before the man turned and saw them. As they moved onwards with a guard for escort, the only other sign he could see of the vile black-and-white-clad Almohads was through that second arch, out by the main gate once more. There were men on both gates now, watching who was coming and going. The Lion of Alarcos was not going to be taken by surprise again.