Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘I hear battle is a different thing altogether,’ said Garyn. ‘Combatants slip in the entrails of the fallen, wounded men crying in agony and seas of filth turning the air rancid.’

  ‘These are the tales of cowards,’ said Dafydd, ‘besides, those who allow themselves to fall in such circumstance do not deserve to be called Knights. No, I will not fall, Garyn. My fate is to be victorious and win recognition on the field of battle, like my forefathers before me. When I return home, I will rise to the court of Llewellyn himself as a trusted man. What about you, Garyn, what glory do you seek on this crusade?’

  ‘Just the life of my brother,’ said Garyn quietly.

  ‘Even if you find him, he will surely be in service to a master so what makes you think he can return home with you?’

  ‘I will worry about that later,’ said Garyn. ‘First I just need to know he is alive.’

  The two young men carried on walking around the port watching the stores being loaded onto the waiting ships. The task was almost done and they knew they would be sailing with the tide.

  ‘Acre is but a few days away,’ said Dafydd, ‘destiny beckons.’

  Before Garyn could answer, a young woman caught his eye from a side alley, beckoning them over.

  ‘What does she want?’ he said, pointing at the girl.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dafydd, ‘but I intend to find out.’

  The two boys walked over.

  ‘Pretty Lady,’ said Dafydd with a slight nod of the head. ‘I am Squire Dafydd Ap Jon. This is my friend, Garyn Ap Thomas. How can we be of service?’

  The girl looked around nervously but didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Engleesh bad,’ she said, ‘but I try.’

  ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘You are pretty boys,’ she said. ‘I find your faces very pleasing to me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dafydd. ‘You are also very pretty.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ said the girl. ‘I am called Zara. I live very close by. You would come home with me, yes?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Garyn. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No problem. I have very nice house and very nice bed. You come with me and have nice afternoons with me. Very cheap.’

  ‘She is a whore,’ said Garyn quietly.

  ‘No not whore,’ said the girl. ‘Very good girl but hungry. Please, you come with me. One coin only.’

  ‘Come on Dafydd,’ said Garyn, ‘let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Why?’ said Dafydd. ‘Whore or not she is very pretty and we are not likely to see many women in the Holy-land, at least, not many willing to share their beds. Perhaps she has a friend for you too.’

  ‘Yes, many friends,’ said the girl. ‘I bring friend, yes?’

  ‘No,’ said Garyn. ‘I am promised to another. You go, Dafydd, I will wait here.’

  ‘How far is your house?’ asked Dafydd.

  ‘Here,’ said Zara, pointing toward a whitewashed building at the end of the alley. ‘We go now, yes?’

  Dafydd grinned at Garyn.

  ‘Go back to camp,’ he said. ‘I have several coins on me so may be a while.’

  Garyn shook his head and laughed.

  ‘Don’t let Cadwallader find out,’ he said, ‘he’ll have you shovelling horse shit from here to the Holy-land.’

  Dafydd laughed and threw his cloak to Garyn.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this. She may be pretty but I don’t trust her one bit. I’ll see you later.’

  Garyn started making his way back to the ship but as he walked away he felt something in the inner pocket of Dafydd’s cloak and realised his friend had forgotten to take his purse. Laughing to himself he turned to catch them up but as he entered the alley, he paused and stared in confusion at the scene before him. At the end of the alley, two men were climbing through a window and into the house of the whore.

  Garyn ducked behind a broken crate, not sure what to do. It seemed obvious to him that the men were in league with the whore and intended to rob Dafydd of anything of value. He thought about running for help but knew there was no time. Since leaving Wales Dafydd had become a close friend and Garyn knew he couldn’t leave him to his fate so without any more hesitation, ran up the alley and climbed through the window.

  Inside the room was dark, the only light coming from the open shutters. From somewhere up ahead he could hear the muffled sounds of the girl and his friend and for a moment he thought he had been mistaken as the unmistakable sounds of their union whispered through the darkness but within moments their intimacy was interrupted by the crash of a door being kicked open and the sound of shouting

  Garyn knew he had to get there quickly. He ran through the darkness, searching for the source of the noise. Dafydd’s voice roared above the rest as the sounds of a fight echoed through the house. Garyn burst through a door and saw his naked friend swinging a stool in the faces of two knife wielding attackers. Without thinking he launched himself onto the back of one sending him sprawling to the floor. Dafydd took advantage of the situation and smashed his stool into the distracted second man. Within seconds they had overpowered the attackers but without warning the screaming girl launched herself onto Garyn’s back, her hands reaching around to claw at his eyes. Dafydd spotted the danger and swung his fist to smash the girl in the face, breaking her jaw in the process.

  ‘Come on,’ he shouted, ‘let’s get out of here.’

  Garyn paused alongside the screaming girl as she held her shattered jaw, the blood pouring through her fingers.

  ‘What about her?’ he shouted, ‘we can’t just leave her like this.’

  Dafydd grabbed Garyn by his jerkin and dragged him toward the door.

  ‘Forget her,’ he said, ‘if you hadn’t arrived I would probably have a knife in my back by now.’

  With one last backward glance, Garyn ran down the corridor closely followed by Dafydd carrying his clothes. Once in the open, the Squire got dressed quickly as Garyn kept looking up the alleyway toward the house.

  ‘Here they come,’ he shouted as the two men ran out of the house and down the alleyway toward them. ‘Come on.’

  They raced along the dock back toward the fleet but as they ran, the shouts of the pursuers echoed around the dockyard and the attackers’ comrades joined in the chase.

  ‘Faster,’ shouted Garyn as the group gained ground on them but though they were young, the locals closed them down. Frantically they ducked into the houses, hoping to lose them in the maze of alleyways but within moments they were lost and found themselves in a dead end.

  ‘Shit,’ cursed Dafydd and they turned to face the attackers.

  Both boys drew their knives and prepared to face the mob, knowing full well they could not prevail against such numbers.

  ‘There’s no way we can beat them all,’ gasped Garyn.

  ‘Maybe not,’ answered Dafydd, ‘but we can take as many as possible with us.’

  Garyn nodded grimly and both braced as the gang ran toward them. To Garyn’s surprise, Dafydd didn’t hold back but raced toward the attackers, causing them to falter in their rush. At the same time he heard a roar from behind the attackers and an unseen figure fell upon them, wielding a sword with a fury unrivalled. Garyn joined in the attack with his knife and within minutes, five men lay at their feet while another three ran from the alleyway in fear of their lives.

  Garyn paused and looked at the scene around him. Dafydd was down on one knee, catching his breath while the man who had come to their aide walked amongst the wounded, checking they posed no further threat to them.

  ‘Brother Martin,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just as well for you I was,’ said the Monk. ‘Are you wounded?’

  Garyn looked down at his blood soaked body but felt no evidence of any wound.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good, then let’s get out of here before they return with their comrades. These docks ar
e a hive of whores and brigands.’

  ‘I noticed,’ said Garyn. ‘Dafydd, come on, we have to go.’

  An hour later they were back on board one of the ships, thankful for the security afforded by the ship’s guards. The Captain of the ship walked over and looked down at the blood soaked boys.

  ‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

  ‘We were attacked by brigands.’ said Garyn.

  ‘Nothing to do with women I suppose?’ said the Captain sarcastically. ‘Don’t bother answering that, I don’t need to know. Anyway, we sail within the hour and before we do, I want you clean. Filth breeds disease and I will not have disease on my ship. Get those clothes washed.’

  ‘How do we do that on board a ship?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Easy,’ said the Captain and grabbing the boy by the scruff, threw him overboard into the water, much to the delight of the watching sailors.

  Dafydd burst out laughing but moments later found himself falling through the air to plunge into the dock water alongside Garyn. He came up coughing and spluttering, his shoulder length hair strewn across his face.

  ‘I can’t swim,’ he screamed.

  ‘Then drown,’ roared the Captain and again the watching men laughed as the two boys clung to the rope ladders draped down the side of the ship.

  ‘Stay there until your clothes are clean,’ shouted the Captain, ‘or next time I’ll pull up the ladders.’

  Garyn looked up at the dockside crowd enjoying their plight. In amongst them was the Monk.

  ‘Brother Martin,’ shouted Garyn, ‘do something.’

  The Monk reached inside his cloak and threw something in the water beside the boys.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘A wash rag,’ said the Monk. ‘Potash soap is beyond my means but at least that sack cloth will clean your skin.’

  Again the crowd laughed and watched as the boys started to wash the blood from their clothes with one hand while clinging tightly to the rope ladder with the other.

  ‘Welcome to the Crusades, Master Garyn,’ called the Monk, ‘and enjoy your bath for there will be very few chances to bathe where we are going.’

  ----

  Chapter Fifteen

  Krak des Chevalier

  Khoury sat inside his quarters in the southern tower. For two days the Mangonels had hurled their rocks against the inner walls but though many of the upper castellations had been destroyed, the main walls were largely intact. Despite this, Khoury knew it was only a matter of time. Even now the enemy could be sending their tunnels under the castle, undermining the walls at their weakest points. He had deployed listeners around the walls, Squires who lay with their ears against the floors of the lower rooms, listening for any sound of tunnelling. If successful, he would start tunnels of his own to confront the enemy in a subterranean battle but as yet the earth had remained silent.

  His mind was in turmoil. If he surrendered the castle his honour would be stripped but if he held and the castle fell, then all the villagers within the walls would die horrible deaths because of his decisions. The order of St John was dedicated to protecting the lives of pilgrims on the road to Jerusalem but innocent villagers were no less vulnerable and deserved their protection. Approaching footsteps in the corridor outside made him look up and he awaited the knock on the door.

  ‘Sire, it is Sir Najaar,’ said the Squire on door duty.

  ‘Let him come.’ said Khoury and stood as his comrade entered his room.

  ‘Sir Najaar, you look tired,’ said Khoury.

  ‘No more so than the rest of the men,’ said Najaar. ‘The bombardment is relentless and we have to keep an ever sharp watch for siege engines.’

  ‘Are the men getting enough rest?’

  ‘As much as they need,’ said Najaar.

  ‘Good, ensure they do for I feel this will end in confrontation sooner than we think.’

  ‘The walls are stout, Sire and we have stores enough for many months. I am told there are no soft spots under the inner wall so any attempt at tunnelling will prove fruitless. We are impregnable.’

  ‘No castle is impregnable,’ said Khoury, ‘for walls are only as strong as the hearts of those who defend.’

  ‘Then my stance remains the same,’ said Najaar, ‘we are impregnable.’

  Khoury smiled at his fellow Knight’s resolve.

  ‘So,’ continued Khoury, ‘what brings you up here at such a late hour?’

  ‘Sire, I have this,’ said Najaar and handed over a tiny rolled parchment secured with twine.

  ‘A message?’ said Khoury.

  ‘One of our homing pigeons landed just before it got dark,’ said Najaar. ‘I would have brought it earlier but the bird was elusive and reluctant to roost. We had to bring it down with an arrow.’

  Khoury cut away the twine and unravelled the wafer thin parchment.

  ‘Najaar, my eyes are not what they used to be he said. Please read it out.’

  Najaar squinted his eyes to read the tiny text.

  ‘Sir Khoury. We are unable to lend aid to your cause. You are to negotiate favourable terms with Baibaars and regroup at Acre. The honour of your men is noted.’

  Najaar looked up at Khoury with shock in his eyes

  ‘Surely this cannot be true,’ he said.

  ‘Who is the signatory,’ asked Khoury.

  ‘Hugh de Revel.’ said Najaar quietly

  ‘The Grand Master himself,’ said Khoury. ‘This is indeed a direction unexpected.’

  ‘It must be a forgery,’ said Najaar. ‘No Knight would surrender a castle so easily.’

  ‘Has it been easy?’ asked Khoury. ‘We have many dead and face an unwinnable siege.’

  ‘It may be difficult,’ said Najaar, ‘but I refuse to believe it is unwinnable. Relief could be just days away and we should at least withstand until our supplies are meagre.’

  ‘What relief would this be?’ asked Khoury. ‘The grand master has stated there is none deployed.’

  ‘I hear Longshanks of England is on Crusade. Perhaps he will support our resistance.’

  ‘Longshanks will have his eyes on other targets,’ said Khoury. ‘No, the chance of relief is minimal and I will make my decision based on the facts available. With regards to the message being a forgery, do we know if the pigeon was one of ours?’

  ‘The pigeon master assures me it was one of a basket sent to Acre a month ago,’ said Najaar. ‘This does not mean however that they have not fallen into enemy hands.’

  ‘I agree said Khoury but it is also possible the message is authentic. Leave me to my musings, Brother, I have much to think about.’

  Najaar lowered his head in deference before leaving the room.

  ----

  The following morning saw those Knights not on duty at the walls deep in prayer within the bowels of the castle. When the priest concluded the service, they each made their way to the great hall to break their fast. The mood was quiet as two of their comrades had been killed during the night by a huge rock sent over the walls by the Mangonels. When the meagre meal of oats and dried dates was done, Khoury stood to address the men.

  ‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘fellow Knights. By now you will have heard of the message I received last night from our Grand Master. In it he instructs our surrender to Baibaars and to seek the best terms we can.’ A murmur rippled around the room. ‘Like you I had my doubts,’ he continued, ‘but everything seems in order. The signature matches that of Hugh de Revel and the pigeon master has confirmed the bird is indeed ours. There is reason to doubt the message is true.’

  ‘It could be a Mamluk trick,’ said a voice from the back of the room.

  ‘It could,’ said Khoury, ‘but we have no way of finding out. The choice is simple. Stay and eventually succumb to the Mamluks, costing the lives of all within these walls or take the opportunity to save the lives of the innocent.’

  ‘We cannot surrender,’ said another voice. ‘Our honour will be as mud beneath the infidel feet.’
r />   ‘Ordinarily I would agree,’ said Khoury, ‘but this is an order from the Grand Master himself. Those who know me well know I do not fear the enemy or the thought of a long siege. However, the times are changing and the Holy-land is under assault on many fronts. Our strength may be needed elsewhere to do what it is we do best, protect the innocent. To die needlessly here for the sake of our pride is an insult to our order and to God himself. We have the chance to not only save the villagers but to continue our cause wherever it may be needed.’ Khoury paused and looked around the expectant faces.

  ‘To this end,’ he continued, ‘I have this morning sent my Squire out to meet Baibaars with a petition of surrender.’

  ‘No,’ shouted several men rising from their seats.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ shouted others, ‘they will think us cowards.’ The room descended into a chorus of shouts from both supporters and critics of the decision.

  Khoury called for quiet without success but suddenly the sound of an upturned table crashing to the floor stunned the room into silence. Everyone looked toward Brother Najaar who stepped up onto the food tables and strode above them, using his sword to point at some of the naysayers.

  ‘Silence your babble,’ he shouted, ‘and show some respect to our leader.’ He walked across to one of the vocal Knights. ‘You, Brother Serril, answer me one question. What is more important to you, the walls of this castle or the life of an innocent?’

  ‘That’s not a fair question,’ started the man.

  ‘It is an easy question,’ shouted Najaar, ‘but I respect you too much to demand an answer.’ He carried on walking and pointed at another Knight.

  ‘Which is held dearest to you, Brother Joseph, your vows of obedience and servitude or your pride?’

  The man lowered his head as Najaar continued along the table, finally stopping before the most vocal of the doubters. He raised his sword and drove it into the oak table before him, leaving it swaying as if in a gentle breeze.

  ‘And you, Brother Shimal,’ he said,’ bravest of us all. Nobody doubts your faith yet I ask you this. Which do you hold dearest, your honour or a child’s life.’