Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  The boy nodded, not sure where this was leading.

  ‘You see,’ continued the Abbot, ‘there is nothing we can hide from him, no matter how hard we try. He knows when we are truthful but also knows when we tell untruths and as we know, lying is a sin.’ He paused before looking directly into the boy’s eyes. ‘Have you ever lied, Garyn?’

  Garyn’s heart was beating faster than he had ever known. To answer truthfully was to admit he had lied the previous evening but anything else was to add even more sin to that he had already committed. He thought furiously, thinking about what Masun had said before he died. He said this man was not to be trusted yet the Abbot was a man of God and Garyn had been brought up to believe they were the voice of Jesus Christ. Surely such men could be trusted?

  Within seconds he knew what he had to do. Though Masun had seemed a good man, Father William was a man of God and a native of Brycheniog. Masun must have been mistaken, there was no way a voice of Christ was untrustworthy. Garyn looked up at the life sized figure of Christ above him and silently prayed for forgiveness. He had to break a promise, he had to tell the truth.

  ‘Father William,’ he said, ‘I…’

  Before he could finish the doors burst open and one of the servants called out across the Chapel.

  ‘Father,’ he shouted, ‘there is fire in the village.’

  Father William and Garyn both turned to stare at the man. Fire was one of the most feared disasters in the village due to the thatched roofs on all the houses.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Abbot. ‘Round up whoever you can and offer aid. I will be along as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the man, ‘many of the brothers are already on their way there but in the circumstances I thought you should know, the blacksmith’s house is ablaze.’

  Garyn jumped up in horror and stared at the man.

  ‘Get out,’ shouted the Abbot and grabbed Garyn’s arm.

  ‘Garyn,’ he said, ‘the villagers will be doing what they can. We will leave in a few moments but first there was something you were going to say.’

  ‘Leave me go,’ shouted Garyn and pulling his arm from the Abbot’s grip, ran through the chapel and out of the doors.

  ‘Come back,’ shouted the Abbot but it was too late. Within moments, Garyn was running headlong down the hill toward the village.

  ----

  The sounds of shouting and the smell of smoke reached him long before he could see his home and as he increased his pace, he prayed his family would be alright. He turned off the path and took a shortcut through the trees. Finally he broke clear and stared in horror at the scene before him.

  People from the village passed wooden buckets of water from hand to hand from the pond and the young men at the front ran as close as they could before throwing the liquid onto the blaze. They worked feverishly but Garyn could see it was hopeless, the house was an inferno.

  He tried to get close but was beaten back by the heat. Brother Martin was already there and came across to comfort him.

  ‘Garyn,’ he said, ‘I fear we are too late.’

  ‘My family,’ gasped Garyn. ‘Did they escape?’

  ‘I fear not, Garyn,’ said the Monk. ‘It seems the fire was started by the heat from the forge and they were overcome by the smoke before they could escape.’

  ‘No,’ cried Garyn, ‘my father took great care to make sure the furnace was always dampened. There would not have been sparks.’

  ‘There is no other possibility, Garyn. The snow still lies on the houses and the fire must have been started on the inside.’

  ‘No,’ gasped Garyn, ‘it can’t be true.’

  ‘Come,’ said Brother Martin, ‘there is nothing you can do here.’

  A shout came from around the back of the house and both men looked up in surprise and hope.

  ‘We have the woman,’ cried the voice, ‘and she is alive.’

  Garyn sprinted around the back and fell to his knees alongside his mother. Her face was blackened with smoke and her eyes were closed but they could see her chest moving slightly.

  ‘Mother,’ gasped Garyn, ‘are you alright? Speak to me please.’

  Elena opened her eyes and a gentle smile played around her lips.

  ‘Garyn,’ she whispered. ‘You have come home.’

  ‘I have,’ said Garyn smoothing her hair from her eyes. ‘And I will not leave you again. ‘You will be better soon, the brothers will make you well, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Garyn,’ said Elena, ‘what of Lowri, I couldn’t find her in the smoke, is she safe?’

  Garyn looked toward the man who had rescued his mother but the farm labourer shook his head, confirming the worst. Garyn looked back at his mother and realised she was dying. Once again he was faced with the choice of telling the truth or lying but this time there was no struggle of conscience. There was no way he could let his mother die thinking her daughter had burned to death.

  ‘She is fine, Mother,’ he lied with tears running down his face, ‘she escaped the smoke and is being looked after by the women.’

  Elena smiled.

  ‘Look after her, Garyn,’ said Elena weakly, ‘and one day, when she is safely married, seek out your brother for me. Tell him that I love him, Garyn as I love you and that we will once more meet again at the feet of the lord. Will you do this for me?’

  ‘I will mother,’ sobbed Garyn. ‘I swear by all that is holy that before I die I will pass on your words.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she gasped and her body was wracked with coughing before she passed out for the last time. Garyn picked her up from the floor, shouting through his tears.

  ‘No,’ he screamed, looking up at the heavens. ‘Why have you done this? What harm has she ever done to you.’

  Many of the onlookers crossed themselves at the blasphemy but Brother Martin stepped forward to put his arm around him.

  ‘Get away from me,’ shouted Garyn. ‘Where is your God now, Monk? What possible reason could he have to take the lives of my kin?’

  ‘God works in mysterious ways, Garyn,’ said Brother Martin. ‘He does not answer to mortal man.’

  ‘Well he should,’ shouted Garyn through his tears, ‘for I have too many questions.’

  ‘She is gone, Garyn,’ said a woman’s voice, ‘let us take care of her now.’

  Garyn looked down at his mother in his arms. Her arms hung limply and her head tilted so far back, her long hair reached the ground. Her eyes that had once held so much sparkle now only shone in contrast to her blackened face. Garyn looked around the clearing. The men had stopped fighting the fire, for it was too far gone. One of them swept some empty buckets off a handcart and a woman laid her cape across the boards. Garyn walked over and laid his mother gently onto the cart.

  Another cape was laid over her body and before it was raised over her head, Garyn leaned over and kissed Elena’s forehead.

  ‘Thank you, mother,’ he said, ‘thank you for being the best mother a boy could ever have. He lowered her eyelids and kissed her once more, Rest well, Elena Wyn. Until next we meet.’ He stood back and watched as her body was covered before being wheeled away. Behind him, his childhood home blazed ferociously and he knew that somewhere within the flames lay the remains of his father and young sister. He glanced back one more time before striding across the yard toward the forest edge.

  ‘Where are you going?’ shouted Brother Martin but the only reply was the sound of crashing branches as the boy ran.

  ----

  Chapter Five

  The Castle of the King’s Constable

  ‘So,’ said Sir John, when the last of the food had been cleared away. ‘Tell me why you have graced these walls with your presence.’

  ‘It is a tale of woe, I fear,’ said Khoury. ‘As you know, I bear the crest of the Hospitallers and ride from Chevalier.’

  ‘An honourable code,’ said Sir John, ‘you have the respect of most men.’

  ‘It is appreciated,’ said Khoury, ‘but respec
t is just a word when the lives of many are at risk.’

  ‘Continue,’ said Sir John.

  ‘As you know these lands have been the centre of much strife since the church led the first crusade and took Jerusalem in 1099,’ said Khoury. ‘Countless men from both sides have spilt their blood in the name of religion and though we swept the infidel aside for many years, they never gave up and Jerusalem has been in the hands of the Muslims since Sah-la-Dhin.’

  ‘You patronise me with your history lesson, Sire,’ said Sir John.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Khoury, ‘but it is important to establish what has gone before, in order to judge the threat of what is about to happen. My point is, Sah-la-Dhin was the greatest warrior these lands have ever known. He brought the fight back to us and even Lionheart failed to defeat him. When Sah-la-Dhin died, he left a legacy second to none and even though his factions fought amongst themselves, they still proved too strong against our Knights. To this day, those lands still under our control, only bend their knee due to the strength within our fortress’ walls.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘There is a new storm brewing, Sir John. Baibaars has managed to unite the Amirs of the outer tribes under his banner and he is about to gain the command of an army potentially hundreds of thousands strong. Already their encampments stretch from horizon to horizon out in the deserts and tales are told of many more in Egypt, all holding their reins until the call comes.’

  ‘There have always been such rumours,’ said Sir John.

  ‘There has but this time they have substance. Nomadic tribes loyal to Baibaars seep into Palestine like blood from a wound. Those who were once subservient to our banner no longer pay the cost of our protection and seek greener pastures elsewhere. Our castles are now no more than isolated islands in a sea of hatred. Yes, we are yet too strong to fear any assault but this is only the start. By stealth, Baibaars has succeeded in subduing a country that once cost a sea of Christian blood to acquire. Only we remain between him and outright victory.’

  ‘I have heard nothing of this,’ said Sir John.

  ‘Like you said, the man has the cunning of a fox,’ said Khoury, ‘yet is about to gain the ferocity of a lion.’

  ‘Our castles are impregnable, Khoury,’ said Sir John, ‘and Edward is already under sail. When he arrives, it matters not the size of Baibaars’ army for no force can withstand an English Monarch’s wrath.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Khoury, ‘but I fear we may not have the time. Already Baibaars has amassed a force to the east of Chevalier and they set their eyes on controlling the Homs Pass. If they succeed, Edward or any other leader will struggle to defend these lands. What we need to do is confront Baibaars as soon as possible and send him back to the East. If we are victorious it may spread doubt amongst his allies but now I know Edward is on Crusade, perhaps all we need to do is delay Baibaars’ campaign until he arrives.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘We need men at arms,’ said Khoury, ‘a mounted army capable of taking on Baibaars in the Homs gap. If you could lend your strength, combined with our garrisons from Chevalier and Marquab we would be strong enough to drive him back.’

  ‘What about the Knights Templar?’ asked Sir John. ‘Surely their swords would add strength.’

  ‘The garrison from the White Tower are on patrol as we speak,’ said Khoury, ‘but number no more than a hundred men. The Tower is little more than an outpost for the Templars and is lightly manned.’

  Sir John stood up and walked around the now empty hall, the rest of the men having moved into the castle courtyard for trials of arms.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘With the greatest respect, Khoury, you are but one man and the request is a heavy one.’

  ‘I have authorisation from our order’s grand master himself,’ said Khoury, ‘Hugh de Revel.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Khoury retrieved a rolled parchment from beneath his tunic and handed it over.

  ‘This document is dated over twenty months ago and is just a general authorisation to seek aid from allied forces,’ said Sir John.

  ‘It is,’ said Khoury, ‘but until this time it has not been needed. Now we have need of such aid and present you with his authority.’

  ‘And who will pay for such aid?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘Our order will pay all expenses,’ said Khoury, ‘but we would assume our mutual interest in this matter would preclude any claims of profit. The security of the Holy-land is in all our interests.’

  Sir John walked around the room for a few moments more while re-reading the parchment.

  ‘Is he aware of the threat?’ he asked.

  ‘We have sent a message but his location is unknown. We believe he is on pilgrimage to Rome.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Khoury, he said. ‘This authorisation is dated and the seal is obviously broken. Many things have happened between then and now. For all I know, he may not support this campaign.’

  ‘He will,’ said Khoury, ‘there is no other option. If Baibaars is triumphant, the order will lose all footholds in the region and will be forced to move overseas.’

  ‘I sympathise, Khoury but I regret I must decline your request.’

  Khoury stared at the Knight before standing up and retrieving the parchment.

  ‘I am disappointed, Sir,’ said Khoury, ‘and fear we will both regret this day. However, I will not beg. Please have my horse prepared.’

  Sir John signalled to a nearby Squire who ran from the hall to make the arrangements.

  ‘In different circumstances I would ride myself,’ said Sir John, ‘but Edward is en-route and expects to find his army waiting. How would it be if he found part of it out fighting a battle not under his command?’

  ‘It could be months before he arrives,’ said Khoury, ‘and by then it will be too late.’

  ‘The matter is not mine to assume,’ said Sir John. ‘My men stay here until ordered otherwise by the King or Longshanks himself.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Khoury and strode across the hall to leave. As he reached the door, a group of giggling women entered without warning and he accidently knocked one to the floor.

  ‘My apologies, my lady,’ he said crouching down to help, ‘I am surely an imbecile with the manners of a mule.’

  ‘No apologies needed, Sir Knight,’ said the woman as he helped her to her feet, ‘the clumsiness was mine alone.’

  As she stood, Khoury caught his breath at her extraordinary beauty. Her long hair was as red as fiery embers and her eyes were the deepest emerald. For a few seconds they gazed at each other, both stuck for words. Khoury stood a full head taller than the woman and despite the beard, she could see he was an extraordinarily handsome man with features weathered by the rigours of desert life. Finally Sir John interrupted the silence.

  ‘Sir Khoury,’ he said, ‘please meet my wife, Jennifer of Orange. She hails from Ireland and has recently joined us here in Acre. Jennifer, this is Sir Abdul Khoury of Syria, Knight Hospitaller.’

  ‘My Lady,’ said Khoury, lifting her hand to his mouth. ‘Please forgive my ignorance, I have been a long time away from the business of any court.’

  ‘Again, nothing to forgive, Sir,’ said Jennifer. ‘Everyone must make allowances in this…’ she paused, seeking the politically correct words, ‘shall we say, demanding environment?’

  ‘We must,’ said Khoury, ‘and the environment is indeed demanding. Can I take it you do not find it to your favour?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ interrupted Sir John, ‘the ladies reside in excellent rooms and enjoy the very best of entertainment and food.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jennifer, still looking at Khoury, ‘but there is only so much entertainment a person can stomach before it becomes a chore and though the walks within the city walls are enlightening, they fall short of the greenery of England’s pastures.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Sir John before Khoury could respond. ‘You have everythin
g you need here and besides, I expect us to be back in England within two years. Now, if you don’t mind, our guest is leaving. Please retire to your rooms, I will have the kitchens send up a meal.’

  ‘It seems our meeting is over, Sir Knight,’ said Jennifer and curtsied once more.

  ‘An all too fleeting moment,’ said Khoury, ‘yet one I will treasure. Fare well, My Lady.’ He kissed her hand again and after a glance at Sir John, left the hall to cross the courtyard. Behind him he heard the door slam shut and Sir John’s raised voice as he admonished his wife. At first, Khoury thought about going back but realised it was none of his business.

  ‘Squire, my horse,’ he shouted and two minutes later he galloped through the gate as he headed back out into the city.

  Back in the great hall, Jennifer’s lady in waiting had been dismissed leaving Sir John and his wife alone.

  ‘How dare you criticise my standing in front of my guests,’ he snarled. ‘Need I remind you your father is indebted to me and should I cast you back from whence you came, his debts become payable.’

  ‘If my father knew how you treat me he would gladly hand over everything he owns,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Then tell him,’ challenged Sir John. ‘I can have the deeds of transfer of his lands drawn up within days should you so wish.’

  ‘You know I will not,’ she said. ‘This marriage may be one of convenience but my loyalty to my family is unbreakable. God willing, his petitions will prove fruitful and when his finances are once more stable, then and only then will he hear of my plight.’

  ‘You are lucky the fire of your mood transfers into your bed-space, My Lady,’ said Sir John, ‘for I tire of your disobedience.’

  ‘Lust is not love,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Love I can live without,’ said Sir John. ‘Now get from my sight and dismiss your servants. Restrict yourself to your bed chamber for I feel I will have need of your fire before this night is out.’

  ‘You will get nothing from me,’ snarled Jennifer.

  ‘I have a lash that begs to differ,’ said Sir John, ‘be-gone.’