by Martin Lake
'Keep your sword in its scabbard, Vallon,' Conrad cried. He turned and regarded John closely.
'You show courage, Englishman,' he said. 'Courage or stupidity. Few men would dare to cross Sir Gilbert Vallon, let alone strike him. I have use for both courage and stupidity. So I shall not kill you. You will help clear up the city before the pestilence bites.'
'He struck me, my lord,' Vallon said. 'I demand he be punished.'
Conrad gazed at the lord.
'It was merely a push, Gilbert. Nothing more.'
'It is not just that,' Vallon continued. 'He claims to be what he is not. A peasant boasting he is a knight. He should be flogged for his presumption.'
The other lords murmured in agreement.
John's anger began to flame. Bernard noticed, alarm flooding his face. He reached out but it was too late, John was beginning to draw his sword.
He had reckoned without Conrad.
John's fingers had barely tightened on the hilt as Conrad chopped him on the wrist and hauled the sword from its scabbard.
'Disarm them all,' he commanded.
His nobles were quick to obey.
The one searching Bernard found the letter of safe passage from al-Adil. He glanced at it quickly, peering at the Arabic script in confusion.
'What is this?' he said. 'This is not French.'
'That is my letter,' John said. 'It is written in English. It's a letter from my brother Alan who is one of Prince Richard of England's comrades. Bernard was keeping it safe for me.' He breathed a silent prayer that nobody there could read English.
The noble made to screw it up but Conrad stopped him.
'Your brother is one of Richard's comrades?' he said.
John nodded.
'Then you may keep it.'
The noble gave the letter back to Bernard.
Gilbert Vallon advanced on John and speedily rummaged through his clothing.
His hand groped something which was not a weapon and he grinned.
'My lord,' he called, pulling out the purse which al-Adil had given.
The other nobles found Bernard and Matthew's purses and held them up.
Conrad nodded towards the table. Vallon led the way and emptied John's purse. The gold coins cascaded across the board. Vallon gasped, his hand twitching over them for a moment as if he were about to snatch some up.
'This is a treasure such as I have rarely seen,' Conrad said softly. 'Where did you get it from?'
None of the three friends answered.
'Did you steal it from Jerusalem?' Conrad asked. 'Did you loot it from the dead and dying?'
'We would never do that,' cried John, his anger still hot.
'Then where did you get it from? It could only have been stolen.' He stepped close to John, his face only inches away, his eyes drilling into him.
'It was a gift,' said Bernard.
Conrad turned, a look of derision on his face. 'A gift? Who would give you such a gift?'
'Al-Adil,' Matthew answered. 'Saladin's brother.'
Conrad turned to him, digesting this fact and pondering what it would mean.
He sat in a chair and gazed up at Matthew. 'Tell me, Mule, why would Saladin's brother give such a kingly reward to three peasants such as you?'
'It was for spying,' Vallon said, 'or worse.'
Conrad did not respond but continued to stare at Matthew. 'You will tell me,' he said. 'You will tell me; either voluntarily or in great pain. Trust me in this.'
'It was not for spying, my lord,' said Bernard. 'It was for saving al-Adil's life.'
Vallon slapped Bernard across the face, sending him crashing to the floor.
'You saved an infidel's life?' he screamed. 'And the life of Saladin's brother at that.'
'It was I who saved him,' said Matthew.
Vallon took a step towards him, face red and swollen. He did not lash out this time. Matthew was far larger and stronger than Bernard.
'Tell me,' Conrad said simply.
'It was on the field of battle,' Matthew said. 'Saladin's brother had been unhorsed and he cried out for help. We were the closest to him. I picked him up on an impulse.'
'If we had not have done it we would have been slain by the Saracens ourselves,' said John.
'Typical of peasants to think about their own skin rather than the greater cause,' Vallon sneered. 'And you dare call yourself knights.'
Conrad leaned back in his seat.
'The story rings true to me,' he said. 'Impulse and fear can make a man act strangely during the heat of battle.'
He picked up a handful of coins.
'And look at the outcome of this act of impulse. Our coffers are replenished. We will be able to buy new weapons with the infidel's gold and repair the city walls.'
The nobles smiled and could not help but cast greedy looks upon the treasure.
'This act of treason merely adds to their crimes,' Vallon said in a soft voice. 'They claim they are knights, they ape their betters, they aid the enemy and they even draw swords against us. I say again, they should be flogged, or worse.'
Once again there were noises of agreement from the others, louder now and more determined than previously.
Conrad looked from the three friends to his nobles and nodded.
'They will learn their lesson immediately,' he said.
The friends were dragged out of the citadel by a dozen grinning guards.
It had started to rain and they slipped on the treacherous steps which led down towards the market square.
They were hauled across the square and tied to three stakes set in the earth. Their shirts were torn from their backs and their hands tied tightly to the stakes.
Word spread like wild-fire that the Marquis had ordered a flogging. Hundreds of people were soon pouring into the square. The siege had been a terrible ordeal and they were delighted to see such a pleasant entertainment was about to take place.
John was surprised to see how quickly men appeared bearing trays with goods to sell. Some bore food, others cups of wine. Two men bore trays of very rotten fruit to throw at the prisoners. But old women snatched up these bargains and carried them home in triumph. The scarcity of food in the city was more powerful than entertainment.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Laurence approach. He bore three pieces of wood in his hand, little larger than twigs.
'These are the best I could find,' he said. 'I'm sorry.' He pushed a piece of wood in each of their mouths and told them to bite hard upon them. 'And I'm sorry that this is happening,' he said. 'The Marquis has promised that I shall have you in my service, after this is over.'
He walked away.
John tried to turn his head to see what was happening. At that moment he saw the flicker of something on the edge of sight and then heard a crack like lightning striking a rotten tree.
The crowd grew quiet.
The crack sounded again. John gasped. He wanted to cry out but the breath had been snatched so brutally from his lungs that no sound came. He braced himself for the next lash. The pain slashed into his back-bone, and his heart. It reverberated around his body, jarring and tearing at parts far from where the whip touched. The crowd gave vent to a delighted cry.
Again the whip cracked. Again the crowd yelled. Again the pain swept across every part of his flesh. He cried out this time, a yell which began as a gurgle and became a whimper. Once more he heard the whip's report. This time he could make no noise beyond a gasp.
Water was thrown over him. He shook his head. If he thought this was an end to his suffering, he was mistaken.
He felt the lash countless times more. He felt that the rest of his life would be this torment and nothing more. He moaned at the pain and at his folly. 'I'm sorry,' he tried to say to Bernard and Matthew but his words came thick.
Eventually he could no longer cry out and his body barely responded to the pain. The whipping stopped.
John was untied and thrown into a corner. The burly figure walked up to Bernard and snee
red.
'Three lashes only for this one,' Laurence said.
'But that one had a dozen,' said the flogger.
'Three,' repeated Laurence. 'And if you argue, I'll make sure that you'll be on the receiving end.'
The crowd jeered, angered at being thwarted of more. They jeered as they watched Bernard trying to arch his body away from the whip without success.
When they heard that Matthew was to receive only three lashes as well they raged at Laurence. However, they were stunned into silence when they caught sight of Matthew's muscular frame. They were awed even more by the fact that he made no sound and did not flinch. A few cheered him for his courage but most jeered. Disappointed that no more was to come, the crowd drifted away.
John came round towards evening. He was laying face-down on a wooden trestle bed with a thin scatter of straw.
He cried out. His back was on fire. He moved a little and regretted it at once. It felt as though a blacksmith had heated a shirt of mail upon a furnace and placed it tight against his flesh.
'I'm sorry,' he muttered.
'Not as sorry as we are,' Bernard answered. 'Nor as sorry as you'll be when I recover.'
John felt a hand ruffle his hair. 'You'll live,' said Matthew. 'But keep your gob shut in the future.'
'You've some need to talk,' he answered, weakly. 'You argued with King Guy.'
'Yes,' Matthew said. 'But he couldn't do anything about it. Conrad and the nobles could and did.'
'How many lashes did we get?' John asked.
'That's the only good part,' Bernard answered. 'Matthew and I got three each and they were fairly light. You got a dozen and the flogger put his all into it.'
John raised his head and gave a questioning look.
'Because you kept boasting about being a knight,' Matthew explained. 'These so called nobles are all bastards. They hate the infidels but they hate their peasants even more. They weren't going to let someone like you get away with claiming to be a knight.'
'But I am a knight,' said John. 'And so is Bernard. They can't take that away from us.'
'Maybe not,' Matthew said. 'But they can take the flesh from your bones instead.'
A heavy footfall sounded behind John.
'So the baby awakes at last,' sounded a voice.
Laurence squatted down and peered into John's face. 'You're harder than you look,' he said. 'I shall make good use of you when you recover. Because you act as stupid as a donkey I shall set you to pull a corpse wagon.'
'Why should I do that?' began John.
'Shut up,' cried Bernard. 'Don't you ever learn?'
'I couldn't agree with your friend more,' Laurence said. 'Learn some sense from him and you may survive. Conrad is as hard as the devil's hoof but he's fair. If you work well for me you'll be all right.'
'We did not come here to work as serfs,' John said. 'We need to find Bernard's family.'
Laurence shook his head and leaned close towards him. 'Don't go claiming you're on a quest, like some knight of Camelot. For all of your sakes you must drop all pretence that you are a knight.'
'But I am,' John said.
'I didn't hear that,' Laurence said. He slapped John on the back, making him curl up in agony. 'Sorry,' he said lightly. 'I can't think what made me do that.'
He walked over to Bernard.
'What does that young fool mean, you're searching for your family? Are they in Tyre?'
Bernard shook his head. 'I don't know. The Saracens took them as slaves. Saladin's brother thinks they may have gone to the markets of Cairo or Damascus although Emir Khalid had seen no sight of slaves in Cairo.'
Laurence frowned and shook his head gently. 'I'm sorry, friend, but if that's the case then you must say goodbye to them.'
'That's what everyone says.' Bernard's voice was bitter and reproachful.
'Because it is the truth,' Laurence said. 'We Franks may choose to ignore it but our kingdoms are like a sliver of a finger-nail on the edge of the Muslim world. It is countless leagues to Damascus and even more to Baghdad. Beyond that, their realm stretches to the fiery chasm where the sun is born. And to the west their lands march from Egypt to the ocean, to Spain and to France.'
'Does Saladin rule all that?' asked John in amazement.
'Saladin is only one of the rulers of the Muslim world,' Laurence said. 'There are scores more like him, just as powerful, just as war-like.'
'I don't care how wide their lands are,' Bernard said. 'I will search for my family.'
'The searching will prove the easy part,' Laurence said. 'It is the finding that will be impossible.'
'Nevertheless,' Bernard said.
'I wish you good luck in your search,' Laurence said. 'But you need to remember that you are now in Conrad's service. And he will not countenance you leaving.'
CHAPTER 44
FIGHTING OVER SCRAPS
Antioch
Simon snatched a piece of bread from the table and stuffed it into his mouth. He swilled it down with a gulp of wine.
Patriarch Eraclius had summoned him more than an hour before but his servant had neglected to give him the message.
'The next time you fail me,' Simon told the servant, 'I will flog the skin off your back.'
The servant wrung his hands and tried to stop the tears.
Simon strode out, cuffing the boy to the ground as he did so.
Gabriella sat up in bed, hiding her nakedness with a sheet. The servant got to his feet and gave her a lewd grin.
'Ring the bell if you want more than our master can provide,' he said. 'I'll be more prompt to answer a call from you than from Simon, believe me.'
'Get out,' she said, flinging a shoe at him.
The door closed behind him and she stared at it in silence. Her heart was beating fast and she was not sure why. She rested her chin in her hand. So much had happened to her since Simon had taken her from the inn. Too much.
She lay back on the bed, bent her legs high to her chest and sucked on the knuckle of her thumb.
It was a short walk from Simon's lodgings to the grand house which Eraclius had settled into with Pasque de Riveri, the woman who the people of Jerusalem had nick-named Madame la Patriarchesse. She was a wealthy woman from Nablus, a widow, and Simon was wary of her.
Because of this he made a lot of effort to befriend their daughter who was six or seven years of age. Both parents noted this, Eraclius with approval, Pasque de Riveri with contempt.
He pushed open the door and entered the hall. Eraclius was waiting for him, bent over a table and writing carefully.
'Where have you been?' he asked without looking up. 'I summoned you two hours ago.'
'My servant did not tell me,' Simon began to explain.
'Enough of your excuses. No doubt you were riding that little whore of yours and thought that I could wait while you pleasured yourself like a hound.'
Simon did not answer. It was, in truth, partly the reason. The servant had heard the noises of his coupling with Gabriella and decided not to interrupt them. It had gone on for much longer than he had anticipated and other tasks had prevented him from giving the message for a while.
Eraclius threw down his pen. 'I am summoned to a council of the great lords,' he said. 'It will take place at noon. You will come with me. I need one pair of ears who will listen out for my good.' He held Simon's gaze.
'At least I assume you will listen out for my benefit.'
The Patriarch's words alarmed Simon. 'Of course, master. I am your servant.'
'You are. And don't ever forget it.' Eraclius' eyes were cold. 'I built you up, Simon Ferrier, and I can just as easily tear you down.'
Simon licked his lips nervously. 'Would it be helpful to you if I knew the reason for the council?' he asked.
'It may be.' Eraclius gestured Simon to pull up a stool.
'We have had a message from Tyre,' Eraclius continued. 'It appears that Conrad of Montferrat has done the impossible and thrown the Saracens back from the walls. So, the all-conqu
ering Saladin has been defeated by the son of an Italian buffoon. What do you think of that?'
'I think that any defeat for the infidel should be a cause of rejoicing.'
Eraclius turned and gave him a doubtful look.
'Don't be so bloody naive. This is the Holy Land, not England.'
Simon shook his head. 'I don't understand, my lord.'
'You will do. If you survive long enough.' Eraclius sighed. 'You will learn,' he continued, 'that the only way in which we Christians prosper in this country is by making peace with the Saracens.'
Simon was shocked. 'You cannot mean that, my lord.'
'I do indeed. This land has been fought over since the time of Moses. Who can really say has the best claim to it? The Jews, the Syrians, the Greeks, the Saracens?'
'Surely it is us, my lord? We Christians.'
Eraclius laughed. 'Almost everyone in the Holy Land would question that statement. And if Christians do have a place here then it is almost certainly not the Franks.'
'But you are a Frank, my lord.'
'I am. And while I hold office I will do my utmost for my flock and for my faith. I will raise money for the nobles, I will bless them as they go into battle, I will condemn the infidel. Yet, in my heart I know that this path will not allow us to prosper. It will merely allow us to survive. If we are lucky.'
The Patriarch gestured for a cup of wine and Simon hurried to bring it to him. Eraclius took a long sip, his eyes staring over the rim at him all the while.
'Tell me the news,' he commanded softly.
Simon gave a sigh of relief. He was about to prove his usefulness.
'The city is full of the rumour concerning Raymond, the new Count of Tripoli.'
Eraclius glared. He would not easily forgive Raymond's cowardice in refusing the refugees entry to Tripoli.'
'What rumour?'
'He is said to have sent congratulations to Conrad for his defence of Tyre. He has pledged his friendship and promised to support him in his ambitions.'
'Ha, I wonder what Bohemond will say when he hears his milk-sop of a son has made such a pledge.'
Eraclius rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. 'And what do your friends the gutter folk say of Conrad's ambitions?'
'They say he wants to replace Guy as King of Jerusalem.'
