Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘Sir John of Cambridge bids you welcome, Sire,’ said the messenger ‘and thanks you for your patience.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the Knight, ‘my gratitude goes to your master for granting me audience.’

  ‘You can leave your mount here, Sire,’ said the messenger, ‘it will be well cared for. Please, come this way.’ The two men made their way across the courtyard toward a large set of double doors set into a far wall. Khoury knew it was the entrance to the great hall, a room typical of such places. Outside the doors, two more pike men stood at guard and up on the walls he could see strategically placed crossbow-men, leaning nonchalantly against the castellations. The messenger pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

  ‘My Lord, Sir Abdul Khoury,’ he announced and stepped to one side to let the visitor through.

  Khoury stopped to look around. The hall was large and reached up to the roof without any intervening floors. The whitewashed walls were draped with tapestries and at the far end, a huge fireplace was built into the stonework, a necessary defence against the freezing nights. The darkness was lit by many arrow slits in the walls and supplemented by hundreds of candles on the many tables scattered within.

  Around the walls, men at arms played games of dice atop chests of equipment or lay asleep amongst sacks of clothing and grain. Many stopped what they were doing to stare at the giant stranger but soon returned to their games with disinterest.

  A clean shaven man with a rounded belly betraying an easy life walked forward to greet him. He was almost the same height as Khoury and wore a red surcoat bearing a golden dog’s head coat of arms over a gleaming chainmail shirt.

  ‘Sir Khoury,’ said the man, ‘welcome to Acre. My name is Sir John of Cambridge, master of this castle.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Khoury, ‘your hospitality is most welcome.’

  ‘You speak excellent English,’ said Sir John.

  ‘Our homeland is Syria,’ said Khoury, ‘but the business of our order demands we deal with many nations. I also speak French and Latin.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Sir John, ‘please, you must make yourself at home.’ He turned and summoned a page.

  ‘Boy, take the Knight’s cloak and gauntlets,’ he said, ‘and bring some fresh mead.’

  The page did as he was told and within minutes, Khoury was sitting at the host’s table, drinking mead from an ornate tankard.

  ‘Good Mead,’ said Khoury as he looked around the room again. ‘You seem well garrisoned, Sir. ‘Are these men under your command?’

  ‘They may be,’ said Sir John, ‘why do you ask?’

  ‘Sir John,’ said Khoury, ‘I will get to the point. I have ridden from Krak des Chevalier with a plea for aide. We have heard that a Mamluk army twenty thousand strong ride our way under the command of Baibaars.’

  ‘Baibaars,’ spat Sir John, ‘a man of the devil himself.’

  ‘You have had dealings with him?’ asked Khoury.

  ‘He laid siege to these very walls just a few years ago.’

  ‘And your opinion of him is low.’

  ‘What man doesn’t curse the ground he walks on?’ asked Sir John. ‘Many in this castle had family or comrades in Antioch when it fell to his trickery last year. Despite his promises of leniency, he slaughtered every one upon the town’s surrender. There is a debt to be paid.’

  ‘He is known for such deeds,’ said Khoury, ‘yet is a great commander.’

  ‘How can you say he is great?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘As a young man he was instrumental in the defeat of Louis of France engaged on the Crusade of Pope Innocent the IV,’ said Khoury, ‘and nine years ago he taught the Mongols a lesson in the Jezrel Valley, the first time any Mongol army has been defeated, repeating the deed later that year in the battle of Homs. Any man who can defeat the Mongols in one battle, let alone two, deserves such a title.’

  ‘Impressive victories I agree,’ said Sir John, ‘but again based on tactics of subterfuge and brutality.’

  ‘Both weapons of war, I would suggest,’ said Khoury. ‘Not ones we recognise within the code admittedly but successful nevertheless and greatness is defined by the victors, irrespective of the methods employed.’

  ‘I hold no patience for such methods,’ said Sir John, ‘and the quicker an assassin’s blade finds his heart the better.’

  ‘Yet did not Richard the Lionheart employ similar tactics in this very place?’ asked Khoury.

  ‘That was over a hundred years ago,’ said Sir John, ‘and this castle was won in fair siege. The prisoners were executed as retribution for Sah-la-Dhin’s trickery in holding up the advance to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Almost three thousand souls sent to hell at the whim of one man,’ said Khoury.

  ‘Your words are tainted with criticism,’ said Sir John. ‘I would take care for though Lionheart has rested for a hundred years, his name is still spoken in awe within these walls.’

  ‘I too hold Lionheart in admiration,’ said Khoury, ‘I only point out the similarity to illuminate the fact great leaders often share similar traits. Sah-la-Dhin was one and Richard the Lionheart another. This Baibaars of the Mamluk shares their ability and is destined for great things. That is why I am here. He heads toward Chevalier and if that falls, I fear Acre will be next and if this city succumbs, then our presence in the Holy-land will come to an end.’

  Before Sir John could answer, a servant called out.

  ‘Sire, the meal is served.’

  ‘Sir Knight, we will continue this talk with full bellies. I trust you are hungry?’

  ‘I am,’ said Khoury.

  ‘Then come,’ said Sir John, ‘join us for our meal.’

  They walked over to the top table and took their seats. The servants brought platters of food from the kitchens and laid them out. Loaves of bread were joined by pastries and slices of roasted meat.

  ‘Goat again,’ said Sir John with a sigh. ‘What I wouldn’t give for just one slice of Venison.’

  ‘It is said our predecessors ate their own clothes,’ said Khoury, ‘such was their hunger.’

  ‘A different time with different challenges,’ said Sir John.

  The commotion died down in the hall and every man sat in silence as each said a prayer.

  ‘Are they all Knights?’ asked Khoury.

  ‘Most of them,’ said Sir John, ‘does this surprise you?’

  ‘It does,’ said Khoury. ‘There must be a hundred men here.’

  ‘A hundred and ten,’ said Sir John, stabbing a piece of goat with his knife. ‘Fifty more in the other halls and five hundred men at arms stationed in the town.’

  ‘A powerful force indeed,’ said Khoury, ‘where have they come from?’

  ‘Some from France,’ said Sir John, ‘and the rest from England. They are first to arrive.’

  ‘The first to arrive?’ asked Khoury.

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘There is a great army en-route from England, Sir Knight. England has finally mustered the numbers needed to defend Tripoli and send Baibaars back from whence he came.’

  ‘The King is coming here?’ asked Khoury in surprise.

  ‘Not the King,’ said Sir John, ‘his son, Prince Edward is in Tunis and is expected to leave any time soon. These men came ashore over the last few days and await the rest of the army.’ He paused before continuing. ‘Longshanks is coming, Khoury and this time it is Baibaars who will experience the bitter taste of defeat.’

  ----

  Chapter Four

  Brycheniog

  Garyn sat in the prisoner’s cell, staring at the man facing him across the room. He had been there for several hours trying to make conversation with the bedraggled man but with no success. Brother Martin had been with them the whole time but finally he realised it was pointless and stood to leave.

  ‘It is no use,’ said Brother Martin, ‘the man is obviously mad. This was a wasted journey, Garyn, come, I will return you to you
r family.’

  Garyn stood and followed the Monk to the door.

  ‘No,’ said Masun unexpectedly and the Monk turned to stare at the prisoner.

  ‘You want us to stay,’ he asked.

  Masun lifted his hand from beneath the cape and pointed his finger at Garyn.

  ‘You,’ he said.

  The Monk looked at Garyn before turning back to face Masun.

  ‘You just want him?’ he asked.

  The prisoner nodded.

  ‘I have to stay here,’ said the Monk.

  ‘It’s alright,’ said Garyn, ‘I don’t mind.’

  The Monk hesitated but finally agreed.

  ‘So be it,’ he said, ‘but I will put a servant outside the door. One call from you and this man will be back in irons before the sun sets.’

  ‘I will be fine,’ said Garyn and waited until Brother Martin had left before taking his seat once more.

  ‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘your name is Masun.’

  The man nodded slowly.

  ‘Where are you from, Masun?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘From beyond the great sea,’ said Masun, ‘a place of majestic sun and endless sands. A land where a man can be alone with his thoughts below the countless stars.’

  Garyn swallowed quietly. It was the most he had heard the man say.

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ he said. Silence fell again.

  ‘And you, Gar-ryn,’ said Masun. ‘Where do you ride from?’

  ‘My family lives nearby,’ said Garyn.

  ‘This cold place is your home?’

  ‘It isn’t always this cold,’ said Garyn. ‘In the summer, the sun gets very hot and we harvest the wheat in the Lord’s fields.’

  ‘The Lord Allah?’

  ‘No,’ said Garyn. ‘It is what we call the master of the manor. He owns the lands around here and the people all work for him or pay him taxes. His word is law.’

  ‘Does he have armies?’

  ‘He has soldiers,’ said Garyn, ‘and many Knights but the larger armies are only raised by the King in times of warfare.’ He paused before continuing. ‘You speak good English, Masun. Why have you remained silent all this time?’

  Masun glanced at the door.

  ‘It was necessary, Gar-ryn, your people are servants of the Christian Gods, killers of the innocents.’

  Garyn frowned.

  ‘Who, the Monks?’ he asked, ‘surely they are men of peace.’

  ‘Peace,’ sneered Masun. ‘In our lands they are murderers and thieves.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Believe what you will, Gar-ryn,’ said Masun. ‘I have seen this with my own eyes. Women ravaged by your so called priests and babies speared on their lances. Men scream at the hands of their torturers and whole villages burned to the ground. I have been brought here in chains, betrayed by one who wears the same cross.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Garyn.

  Masun started coughing and bent over in pain. Spots of bloodied spittle splashed on the cell’s floor and Garyn ran over to help him.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked as he helped him to sit up.

  ‘Water,’ gasped Masun.

  The boy poured water into a goblet and held it to the man’s lips. Masun drank before leaning back against the wall, struggling for breath.

  ‘I am very weak, Gar-ryn,’ said Masun. ‘I am not long for this world and soon I will leave these devils behind me and travel to meet my God.’

  ‘No,’ said Garyn. ‘I will ask the Abbot to bring the apothecary. He will let your blood and release the poison that ails you.’

  ‘The only poison I have is that in my mind,’ said Masun, ‘memories of death and bloodshed that no man should ever see. I do not fear death, Gar-ryn, I welcome its embrace. I desire the peace it will bring and only regret I will never again stand beneath the stars of the desert and wonder at their marvel.’ Masun’s hand shot out and grabbed Garyn’s wrist, pulling him in close. Garyn tried to pull away but despite his frail condition, the prisoner’s grip was too tight. Masun stared into the boy’s eyes for several seconds before finally releasing him. Garyn stumbled backward against the wall, wondering if he should call out. The two stared at each other before Masun broke the silence.

  ‘I have a son your age,’ he said quietly. ‘I see him when I look into your eyes. I see the same innocence of youth and the impatience to be a man. He too wishes to don the colours of his people and fight in the name of his God, both young men believing the righteousness of their cause yet standing on opposite sides of the battle.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Then tell me I am wrong,’ said the prisoner, ‘do you not yearn to wear the armour of the crusader and ride to glory in the name of your God. Does not the pull of the chivalric codes fill your dreams?’

  ‘I will never be a Knight,’ said Garyn. ‘I have no sponsor to show me the way of the Squire and my family are of humble nature. To become a Knight you need the wealth of a lord and a family name of note. I have neither.’

  ‘Why is this so important to you?’ asked Masun.

  ‘To live a life of honour is the dream of all men,’ said Garyn.

  ‘And if you were to achieve such heights, would it be your lance that spears the children of my people, your torch that burns their homes?’

  ‘I cannot see the future, Masun,’ said Garyn, ‘but I do know this. If God’s glory sees fit to set me upon such a path, I will do everything in my power to meet the chivalric code and that does not include the slaughter of the innocents.’

  ‘I believe you, boy,’ said Masun eventually. ‘My views on your God differ wildly but my heart tells me you say the truth. I feel my body weaken as we speak, Gar-ryn so there is something I must give you.’

  Garyn looked around the cell. The man had nothing to give.

  Masun saw his glance and smiled.

  ‘It is not a chattel, I offer, Gar-ryn but a gift much greater, a gift so valuable that it has the power to bring the armies of Henry home and send my people back to their villages in peace.’

  Garyn waited in silence.

  ‘You have an honest heart, Gar-ryn,’ said Masun, ‘but what I am about to tell you, you must keep to yourself. Do not trust the men of cloaks in this place, I have heard their whispers and they cannot be trusted. Do you understand?’

  Garyn nodded.

  ‘Good, then know this. If you are willing, I will tell you a great truth. Accept my words and you will bear a burden greater than any man should ever bear. It has the power to break you or give a purpose greater than any Knight. If it is shared, thousands will die yet within one true man, it is the means to peace in both our lands. The choice is yours, Gar-ryn. Accept and bear the burden of truth, decline this burden and I will happily take it to my grave.’

  ‘Why me?’ asked Garyn quietly.

  ‘Because you were the first man to show me kindness in this cold place,’ said Masun, ‘because you did not judge me by race or religion and because you are yet untainted by the greed of mortal man.’

  ‘You flatter, me, sir,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Masun, ‘but true words nevertheless. There is another reason, Gar-ryn,’ he said, ‘you remind me of my son.’ Another coughing fit made him grimace in pain. ‘Make your choice, Gar-ryn for I feel my time is limited.’

  ‘I will accept the burden,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Then listen well, Infidel, for I fear I will not have the strength to repeat this again.’

  ----

  Half an hour later, Garyn sat beside the prisoner’s bed, absorbing the astonishing tale he had just been told. Masun’s breath was getting weaker and he slipped in and out of consciousness. Garyn realised he had succeeded in getting the information the Abbot so desperately wanted yet something worried him. He did not know the man dying before him and had no concept of the life he had lived. Masun even worshipped the heathen God yet despite all this, Garyn had the feel
ing he was probably the most honest man he had ever met. The sound of keys rattled outside the door and as Garyn turned, Masun reached out and grasped his hand.

  ‘Gar-ryn,’ he said. ‘Use the words wisely, or cast them from your mind. Either way is good but I ask only this. Do not share them with anyone except those you would die for.’

  Before Garyn could answer, Masun gasped and his body writhed in spasm. The door burst open and Brother Martin came into the room, running to the Muslim’s side. Father William stood in the doorway and as other Monks joined Brother Martin around the dying man to pray, the Abbot’s face turned from concern to anger. Finally he turned to face Garyn.

  ‘Why didn’t you call?’ he said.

  ‘There was no point,’ said Garyn. ‘He was dying and sought only peace.’

  ‘Your role was to glean the information from him before he died,’ said the Abbot. ‘Did he say anything to you? Did he share what information cost the lives of fifty Knights?’

  Garyn paused. He was talking to a man of God in the depths of an abbey and he had never told a lie in his life. He glanced at the dying man before turning back to the Abbot.

  ‘No, Sire,’ he said. ‘He never said a thing.’

  ----

  Garyn stayed in the Abbey until they buried Masun the following day. He had asked the Abbot if they had buried him according to his beliefs but the Monks had no knowledge of what was expected so buried him with a simple Christian ceremony. Before he left to go back to the village, he was summoned by the Abbot to attend him in the Abbey.

  Garyn followed the messenger and was led into one of the chapels. Rows of pews faced the far end and the Abbot knelt before the figure of Christ, high above the altar. Garyn waited until he had finished before coughing gently to attract his attention. The Abbot glanced over his shoulder before summoning the boy to join him.

  ‘Kneel alongside me, Garyn,’ he said.

  Garyn did as he was told.

  ‘Look up, Garyn,’ said Father William, ‘and tell me what you see.’

  ‘I see the Lord Jesus Christ,’ said Garyn.

  ‘And he sees you, Garyn. From his glorious place in heaven he sees each and every one of us, not only this temporary shell our soul calls home but also into our very hearts.’