by Martin Lake
Matthew's size and strength proved invaluable now. He shouldered his way through the crowd with John and Bernard in his wake.
'Three pints of your best wine,' he yelled at the inn-keeper.
'I prefer ale,' John said. 'English if you have it?'
'I've got ale,' the inn-keeper said. 'Christ knows where it came from but it will give you a head like mill-stones.'
'That will suit him,' said Bernard. 'He needs something powerful to penetrate his skull.'
'Hey,' cried a man from further down the bar. 'Hey, is that Bernard Montjoy?'
Bernard turned and scanned the line of men at the bar. A tall, stocky man was gazing towards him and now raised his hand in greeting.
'Jurgen,' Bernard cried. 'Is it you?'
'As ever was. Wait there.'
In a moment the tall man had joined them, together with his companion, a man as short as Jurgen was tall. As soon as the smaller man saw Bernard he grinned and shook his hand. When they relaxed their grip the man hurriedly counted his fingers.
'Four fingers and a thumb,' he said. 'For once you haven't robbed me.'
'I had no need to rob you Oliver,' Bernard answered. 'You consumed enough wine in my inn to keep me in a life of luxury.'
'That looks to have changed.' The tall man bent and sniffed him. 'You smell like a cesspit.'
'Thank you, Jurgen. You would smell as bad if you had been carrying rotting corpses around all day.'
'So, they've had you slaving as well,' Oliver said. 'Jurgen and I have been dismantling the Saracen siege engines.'
'That sounds like bliss compared to what we did,' said Bernard. 'Here, do you remember John?'
Oliver nodded. 'The young Englishman. You were also knighted by Balian.'
'I was,' said John. 'I think we ate together once, sheltering behind a wall from Saracen arrows.'
'We did indeed. We ate broiled dog.'
'Trust Oliver to find the delicacy,' Jurgen said. He extended a hand to John. 'You had a brother, or a cousin, if I recall right.'
'A cousin,' John said. He did not wish to continue this line of conversation with the big German. 'I never met you, Jurgen,' he said, 'but I remember you at the siege. You were always in the thick of the battle.'
'Yes, but always trying to get out of it,' said Oliver. 'You only noticed him because he is so big. So did the Saracens. They always made a bee-line for him and he always ran away.'
John smiled. Jurgen was known as one of the most courageous of Jerusalem's defenders.
Bernard indicated Matthew to the newcomers. 'You won't know Matthew. He wasn't at the siege.'
Oliver held out his hand and shook it warmly.
Jurgen stared at Matthew's face and nodded. 'I do know you,' he said. 'You are called the Mule. You used to carry the leper King on your back.'
The men close by heard this. They fell silent and turned to stare at Matthew.
Matthew felt Oliver's hand go dead in his. A moment later he felt the grip tighten. The little man shook it even more vigorously. 'That was years ago, you big dolt,' he said to Jurgen. 'He obviously didn't catch anything.'
Matthew gave a smile of thanks to Oliver. The crowd surrounding relaxed at his words and returned to their wine.
'Why are you in Tyre?' Bernard asked.
'It started on the day that al-Adil freed us,' Oliver said.
'The day after, actually,' said Jurgen.
'The day after then. Nobody knew what to do. It was clear that we could no longer go back to our homes in the city. Those of the knights with relatives in the country headed that way. That left about a dozen or so of us.'
'More than that,' Jurgen said. 'Nearer a score.'
'A dozen. A score. The number's not important. Anyway, about half the group decided to go off to the castle at Kerak. It was said to be impregnable so it seemed a safe place to go.'
'The rest of us did not think so,' Jurgen added.
'No,' Oliver said. 'Too far to the east, too close to the Saracens. A couple of men had families who had bought their freedom so they went in search of the columns led by Balian.'
'Half a dozen of us did not trust the Muslims who were guarding Balian's columns so we headed north instead.'
'We would have been better putting our trust in the infidels,' Oliver said. 'We travelled to Belvoir Castle and sought service there. Our offer was not welcomed; we were called cowards and traitors and thrown into the prison.'
'By Christians?' John asked.
'By Hospitallers,' Jurgen answered. 'I could not believe it of such a holy order.'
The tall man took a deep drink at his wine and banged upon the table for another. The memory of it still shocked him.
'We would have been rotting there still,' continued Oliver, 'if it hadn't been for the Saracens. They arrived soon after we did and besieged the castle. One of the guards took it into his own head to free us to fight.'
'More fool him,' said Jurgen.
'More fool the four of us who agreed to fight for the Hospitallers. Not Oliver Rideau. I persuaded this big bugger to join me and we slipped out of the castle that night and never stopped running until morning.'
'Eventually we ended up here, in Tyre. Conrad put us into his militia straight away. We have been here ever since.'
Bernard raised his glass to them. 'A strange adventure. But you survived.'
The two men nodded.
'What about you?' Jurgen asked. 'How did you end up in Tyre?'
'We went in search of the captives,' Bernard answered. 'The minute we were given our freedom. My wife and family were taken by the Saracens.'
Oliver put his hand to his mouth. 'Not Agnes?'
Bernard nodded.
'And the children? Gerard and Eleanor?'
'And my nephew, Claude-Yusuf.'
Jurgen put his hand upon Bernard's shoulder. 'Thank God that they are together, at least.'
Oliver frowned. 'Are they here then? Are they in Tyre?'
'No.'
'Have you searched for them?'
'We haven't,' John said. 'But our captain asked his friends to search high and low for them. They are not in the city.'
'Laurence is there,' Bernard said, beckoning the captain over. 'He has money from Conrad. Let him buy you a drink.'
Laurence began to make his way towards them. Before he got to them, however, there came a sound of a scuffle near the entrance.
Half a dozen nobles had forced their way into the tavern. They were drunk and looking for fun. They shouldered aside anyone in their path and made their way to the bar.
'Wine and food,' cried one. 'And not your usual slops. The best you've got.'
John tensed. It was Gilbert Vallon, the man responsible for their flogging.
The tavern-keeper ignored the man he was serving and hurried to get wine for the lords, yelling at the rest of his family to come and help serve. They must have sensed from his voice that something was amiss for they rushed out to help.
His wife and two sons brought platters of cold meat from the kitchen while his daughter joined her father and poured the best wine into clean goblets.
'Pretty wench,' said one of the lords. He leant over the bar and dragged the young girl half over, slobbering at her mouth to the cheers of his friends.
John tensed at this.
Bernard grabbed his arm. 'Don't be a fool.'
The girl broke free and retreated to her father, wiping her mouth as she did so.
'How much for the girl?' yelled the man.
'She's my daughter,' the tavern-keeper said.
The man shrugged. 'What difference does that make?'
'She's a good girl, Sir Henry.'
'Let me be the judge of that,' Henry cried. He made a lunge at the girl, grabbing her by the hair.
John watched in silence for a moment longer. Then he shrugged off Bernard's grip and walked across to the man.
Bernard turned to Matthew for help but it was already too late.
John clutched the nobleman by his ar
m.
'She is only a child,' he said. 'Be courteous, I beg you.'
Sir Henry's eyes widened as he stared at John. 'How dare you,' he began. He paused. John sensed that the knight half-recognised him and was struggling to recall from where.
Gilbert Vallon had no such difficulty.
'Look what we have here,' he said. He pushed his way towards John.
'Sir Peasant, the Knight of the gutter,' he cried with a mock bow to John.
His friends laughed at the words.
'Of course,' said Henry. 'Balian's ragged champion.'
'Balian's piece of shit,' said Vallon. 'Balian's ill-bred knight.'
John said nothing. Part of him wanted to avert his eyes, to cast them down. Yet a larger part made him refuse to do so. He blinked and gazed back directly at Vallon. Then he yawned, as if bored by the conversation.
'Insolent dog,' cried Vallon, slapping him on the cheek.
John tensed but forced himself to stay calm.
'Look over there, Gilbert,' said one of the others. 'Sir Gutter has his friend here. The Mule.'
Gilbert's eyes slid towards Matthew, thinking him equally good prey.
'I'll deal with you in a minute,' he murmured to John.
Vallon stared at Matthew for a long time, amusement building in his face.
'I can see why you were chosen to be a beast of burden,' he said at last. 'You look as strong as a brute and no doubt you've got the brains of one.'
Matthew fought to control his anger. He took a breath and turned his back on Vallon, picking up his wine. This was a mistake.
Vallon cried, 'Let's see how strong a mule he really is,' and leapt upon Matthew's back.
Matthew felt the man's legs lock around his chest and his strong hands jerk his head backward by his hair.
'Now it is I who ride the Mule,' Vallon yelled. His friends cheered with delight.
Matthew turned this way and that, desperately trying to dislodge Vallon. But the noble had ridden war-horses since his youth and it was no problem for him to tighten his legs and keep his seat. The more Matthew turned, the tighter he gripped. He swept out his sword and began to beat Matthew on his thigh.
'Ride Mule, ride. Show me your tricks.'
'Lord Vallon,' cried the tavern-keeper. 'Careful with your sword, you might wound him.'
Vallon disregarded him, or maybe not. The next beat of his sword cut into Matthew's arm and drew blood.
This was too much for John. He jumped towards them and dragged Vallon to the ground. Vallon did not move in time and John threw himself upon him, his knees landing on his chest with his full weight. The crowd watched in grim silence as John rained punch after punch upon Vallon's face.
Vallon's friends were too astonished to react for a moment. Then they attacked. Henry reached them first. He swept out his sword and held it high above John's head. He struck. But the sword did not.
Laurence had parried the blow with his sword.
Henry turned and stared speechless at the newcomer.
'You scum,' he cried and lunged towards Laurence with his sword.
Laurence blocked the blow and forced Henry back a step. He recovered instantly and sliced low, seeking to cut Laurence's legs. Laurence leapt away just in time. Henry straightened and raised his sword in both hands. He cut at Laurence time and again, the weight of his battle sword forcing him back until he had reached the tavern wall. There was no where else to retreat to. Henry laughed and raised his sword for the killer blow. He glanced around, checking that his friends were watching. Laurence ducked and stabbed. It was a desperate blow and his sword thrust through the knight's chest. Henry staggered and stared down at the blade, a look of disbelief in his face. He slid to the ground.
Laurence stared at the fallen knight in horror, the enormity of what he had done racing into his brain.
He glanced up. The whole of the tavern stared at him in silence.
Bernard grabbed hold of John, dragging him off of Vallon. He turned towards Laurence and called out, 'Come with us, Laurence. We must flee.'
Laurence was dazed by what he had done. He felt Matthew grab him by the arm and hustle him towards the door. Two men stepped close behind.
'We're coming with you, Bernard,' called Oliver.
They pushed through the crowd.
The men moved aside to allow them free passage. Then in silence as one they turned towards the nobles, their faces grim and set, their arms crossed.
'You're going nowhere,' called a voice from the crowd.
The nobles took one look at them and edged back towards the wall.
'How about a drink?' one called out nervously.
The crowd did not answer.
The six friends raced out of the door and turned left towards the city walls. It was pitch black now, with the crescent moon giving little light. Bernard and the others were soon lost in the maze of streets.
He pressed his face close to Laurence's. 'Where the hell are we?'
Laurence shook his head, still in a daze. He glanced around, trying to discern the shape of the buildings.
'Near the fish-market,' he said. 'Where are we going?'
'We're escaping from Tyre,' Oliver said. 'John beat Gilbert Vallon to a pulp and you killed Henry Colville.'
Laurence held his hands over his eyes. 'I'm a dead man,' he muttered.
'You are if you remain in Tyre,' Bernard said. 'Come on.' He led the way down the street. He had his bearings now.
They had only gone two hundred yards when Laurence called to them to stop.
'What the hell for?' cried Bernard. 'They'll be after us in minutes.'
'We'll never escape on foot,' Laurence said. 'The stables are close by.'
They turned and followed Laurence down a narrow alley, stumbling into each other in the dark. After a few minutes it opened out into a small square. The smell of horses hit their noses.
Laurence led them into the stable. Silently, in a haste of panic, they selected six horses and saddled them up. 'Take a spare,' John whispered. 'We can't risk any going lame.'
'Then let's take three,' Bernard said.
Ten minutes later the six men walked the horses out of the stables. All was quiet.
'This is strange,' Jurgen said. 'I thought we would have been pursued by now.'
'I know why we aren't,' Oliver said. 'Our friends have prevented the lords from leaving. News of what happened in the tavern won't have got out yet.'
'Then let's go while we've got a chance,' Bernard said.
They were only a short distance from the walls. Laurence led them left, away from the main gate towards a smaller one which was normally used by traders coming in and out on foot.
'It will be guarded,' he said, 'but more lightly.'
He was right. Two soldiers lounged beside the gate, their supper spread out before them. They looked up in surprise at the sudden appearance of men and horses.
'Where are you going?' one cried, reaching for his sword.
'It's me, Laurence Dubois.'
The sentry stood up and raised a lantern to Laurence's face. 'Sorry sir,' he said. 'I didn't realise it was you. We have to challenge everyone.'
'Absolutely,' Laurence said. 'Well done.'
The man continued to stare at him, a questioning look on his face.
'We're on a mission to scout for Saracen war-bands,' Laurence explained.
'I thought Saladin had gone, sir.'
'There's rumour they're filtering back. Or so the Marquis thinks.'
The man stiffened at the mention of Conrad.
'It's a secret mission,' added Bernard. He glanced around. 'The Marquis fears there are spies in the city.'
The two guards looked around in alarm, as if expecting to see hooded figures spring out in the darkness.
'We won't breathe a word,' said the man quietly. He turned and opened the gate slowly, easing it open without a sound.
Laurence clapped him on the shoulder and led them out of the city.
They walked their hor
ses for a couple of furlongs then mounted up and began to trot. It was only when they had covered the best part of a mile that anyone spoke again.
'There's still no sign of pursuit,' John said.
'Thank God,' Bernard said. 'Let's make the best of it. We can't ride fast in starlight but let's get on.'
They started off once again. All except Laurence. He turned in his saddle and looked back at the city.
'Come on, sir,' Bernard hissed. 'We've got to get a move on.'
'I'm not coming,' Laurence answered. 'I'm a captain in the city guard. I should go back.'
'If you go back you'll be dead.'
'It was a fair fight,' he said. 'Witnesses will testify that I killed in self-defence.'
'What witnesses?' John asked.
'The men in the tavern. The tavern-keeper and his family.'
'Do you really think their word will count for anything against Vallon's and his friends?' John was incredulous.
'Of course it will. There are dozens of them. And my word counts for something in the city.'
'You're fooling yourself if you think that. I was flogged merely for pushing at Vallon.'
'And for claiming to be a knight,' said Matthew.
'Whatever the reasons, I was flogged. So what do you imagine your punishment will be for murdering a knight?'
'It was not murder.'
'That's what they'll call it.'
Laurence said nothing, his gaze still fixed longingly upon the city.
'But I've never left Tyre,' he said. 'Where will I go? Tyre is my home.'
'You'll go with us,' said Bernard.
'And your home will be your horse,' added Matthew.
'And your kin will be us,' said John. We're the only kin any of us have got.'
He frowned, cursing himself for saying such a thing in Bernard's hearing. 'Until we find our loved ones,' he added quickly.
'So,' said Laurence. 'You poor souls are my new companions.' He paused. 'What did Gilbert Vallon call you?'
'Balian's ragged champions,' Bernard said.
'Ill-bred Knights,' said John.
'Ill-bred Knights,' echoed their voices in the darkness.
CHAPTER 46
WAR IN THE HAREM
Baghdad
Agnes gazed at the view from her window. A long sweep of lawn led down to the Palace walls. Peacocks strutted on the lawn. Soldiers strutted on the walls. Beyond the walls she could see nothing but a clear blue sky with a skein of clouds wafting slowly in a high breeze.
