Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  Sir John laughed at the joke.

  ‘Me dead? Oh no my friend, my flesh ages it is true but my soul is as young as those two Squires that once crept into the servant girl’s quarters.’

  ‘Good days,’ said Cadwallader with a smile recalling the incident many years earlier. ‘So, are you going to invite me in or shall I stay out here like a beggar?’

  ‘Though I worry for my ale stock, you are of course my guest,’ smiled Sir John. ‘Please, step inside.’

  The two men entered the hall and were immediately attended by two pages.

  ‘Bring ale,’ said Sir John and one of the boys disappeared down the corridor. ‘So,’ said Sir John sitting back. ‘You made it.’

  ‘We did,’ answered Cadwallader. ‘A pretty uneventful trip in all. The overland march was tough but the sea journey was fair. I lost only two men.’

  ‘Fortune indeed,’ said Sir John. ‘I am told that Longshanks lost hundreds on a similar journey though truth be told, many fell to disease at Tunis.’

  ‘Is the Prince here?’

  ‘He was,’ said Sir John, ‘but has led a force out into the field. Baibaars is a thorn in our side and Longshanks rides to make a statement. His column is almost two thousand strong and includes outriders from both the Hospitallers and Templars.’

  ‘A somewhat strange allegiance I would suggest,’ said Cadwallader.

  ‘Perhaps so but needs must. You arrive at a pivotal time, Robert. The future of the Holy-land hangs in the balance. Baibaars is proving to be a worthy adversary and the tribesmen rally to his call. As we speak he dominates all the lands south of here all the way around to Egypt and as far north as Antioch. Eastward also belongs to him and he controls the Homs gap.’

  ‘Surely the gap is controlled by Krak des Chevalier?’

  ‘It was until about a year ago when the Castellan was tricked into surrendering the castle by Baibaars. Since then we fight a reactive war, responding to the actions of Baibaars instead of taking the fight to him. That’s why the arrival of Longshanks is so important. At least he rides out with a strong message of defiance.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was so bad,’ said Cadwallader.

  ‘Well you do now. Antioch is lost to us, Tripoli is under siege and as for Jerusalem, well, any thought of a Christian Knight walking those sacred streets again are nothing more than dreams of boys. No, I fear our time in the Holy-land is limited, Robert and we build stick dams against a flooded river.’

  ‘I can’t say your words are comforting, Sir John,’ said Cadwallader as the ale arrived. ‘I have travelled far to help secure these lands alongside Longshanks.’

  Sir John picked up his tankard and held it up in salute.

  ‘Then let’s drink to that,’ he said, ‘and hope your expedition is not in vain.’

  They knocked the tankards together before drinking deeply of the ale, two fellow Knights with completely different views of their place within the Christian east.

  ‘So how is your beautiful wife, the Lady Jennifer?’ asked Cadwallader.

  Sir John placed his tankard on the table and looked down in silence.

  ‘Alas, she is dead, my friend,’ he said eventually. ‘Killed by a Mamluk patrol not a year since.’

  Cadwallader shook his head in sadness.

  ‘My friend, I had no idea,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’

  ‘It is a tragedy indeed,’ said Sir John, ‘but we have to be strong. God’s work demands it. Let the subject be changed my friend, tell me about the green fields of home.’

  The conversation went on long into the evening with much ale flowing. Other Knights joined them in the hall, each happy to have arrived at last and they sat around the tables deep in conversation about the campaign before them. Cadwallader and Sir John got slowly drunk and recalled shared tales of boyhood pranks where they had grown up together as Squires to the same Lord. Finally Sir John remembered something and changed the subject.

  ‘Robert,’ he said, ‘I almost forgot. A month or so ago I had a message delivered from Wales. An old acquaintance sent word of a young man who sets out on a mission to find his brother. Apparently he rides under your command. Do you know of him?’

  ‘I do,’ said Cadwallader, ‘his name is Garyn ap Thomas, son of Thomas Ruthin.’

  Sir John’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  ‘Thomas Ruthin? His name is known to me.’

  ‘It should,’ laughed Cadwallader, ‘he unseated you in a joust tournament in London many years ago.’

  Sir John nodded slowly as he remembered but did not share Cadwallader’s smile.

  ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘A journeyman of ill repute as I recall.’

  ‘But unequalled skill, as his victory over you proved.’

  ‘So this boy,’ continued Sir John, ‘Ruthin’s son. Is he a paid man?’

  ‘Only as far as the journey is concerned,’ said Cadwallader. ‘He is now his own man and free to serve any master.’

  ‘Like father like son,’ said Sir John.

  ‘I suppose so but the son is no Knight. He is a lancer at best and short of experience. Why do you ask, do you want to enlist him?’

  ‘No,’ said Sir John, ‘but the letter begged favour and held a grudge against him. I would hear from his own mouth why an esteemed Abbot demands the imprisonment of his brother until a certain pledge is filled.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Cadwallader.’ I will have him sent to you.’

  ‘Is he not here?’

  ‘Like I said, he is no Knight so shares the billets of the men at arms. I will have him brought at first light. Until then, my tankard is dusty through little use. Is this the way you treat an old friend?’

  Sir John sighed.

  ‘Your thirst has not been missed, Sir Knight. Perhaps we should put the ale barrels in the heart of Jerusalem and watch as you take the city single handed.’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ laughed Cadwallader, ‘perhaps you should.’

  ----

  Brother Martin walked through the streets of Acre, heading toward the Hospitaller quarter. The order had held a base there for many years and their headquarters was even larger than the Castle of the King’s Constable and almost as fortified as the Templar Castle in the northern edge of the city. He walked confidently, the memory of the streets coming back to him from the years he had spent as a hired Knight. His stride was purposeful as although the city was filled with soldiers, there was still an underbelly of desperation, the lower classes who lived hand to mouth, and would not think twice about cutting the throat of any man thought a weak target. Hidden eyes watched him go, aware he had the gait of a man able to take care of himself. Mistakenly they took him for a Knight of the order and let him pass, knowing that any attack on a Hospitaller would incur a terrible retribution. As he approached the Hospitaller castle he turned left and disappeared down a side street, seeking the alleyway he had frequented so many times before. Finally he stopped before a small door set back amongst the dirty white-washed walls of tightly packed buildings.

  He knocked hard on the wood several times until it eased inward and a wrinkled woman peered around the door.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked peering into the Monk’s hood. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I know,’ said Brother Martin gently, ‘I am not from the order. I am a pilgrim and seek an old friend. He used to live here.’

  ‘What name was he?’

  ‘Ahmed Mubarak, he was a guide for my unit many years ago and I come in hope he still lives.’

  The woman paused as she considered the Monk’s words. Finally she looked up and down the alleyway before stepping to one side and letting him in.

  ‘Go through to the back,’ she said, ‘and up the stairs. You will find him outside.’

  The Monk did as directed and found himself out on a flat roof typical of the houses in Acre. To one side was a makeshift shelter and beneath it an old man lay on a straw mattress covered with a goatskin. Beside him, a pretty
young woman was sitting on a stool keeping the flies away with a feathered fan.

  ‘Ahmed Mubarak,’ said Brother Martin, ‘is that you?’

  The man turned his head slightly but did not look up.

  ‘Speak again, stranger,’ he said weakly, ‘for the voice is familiar to me.’

  ‘And so it should,’ said Brother Martin. ‘We spent many nights under the desert stars as you taught me the ways of your people.’

  A faint smile played around the Arab’s mouth.

  ‘And if my memory doesn’t play tricks on me,’ he said, ‘many days riding weary horses into battle. My friend Martin, can it be you have returned to this accursed place once more?’

  ‘I have,’ said the Monk, ‘and have come directly to find the greatest friend I have ever had.

  ‘You honour me, Sir,’ said Ahmed, but still did not rise from the bed. ‘I trust this is not a visit without purpose?’

  ‘Just as astute as ever,’ said Brother Martin, ‘I need a guide and hoped I could tempt you to join with me once more, two old men on one last quest.’

  ‘A last quest,’ said Ahmed. ‘What I wouldn’t give for such an opportunity but alas, I will have to turn you down.’

  ‘I can pay you, Ahmed,’ said Martin walking around to the foot of the bed, ‘I have enough coin to …’ The words fell away as he saw the man up close for the first time in many years. Immediately he could see his trip had been in vain as he focussed on the two clumsily sewn wounds where the man’s eyes had once been. Eventually Ahmed broke the heavy silence.

  ‘I assume your sudden silence means you have noticed the reason I must turn you down,’ he said.

  ‘By all that is Holy,’ said Brother Martin, ‘what happened to you?’

  ‘It is a gift from one of Baibaars’ generals,’ said Ahmed. ‘I was caught scouting for a Templar patrol and tortured by the Mamluks. They staked me out and pinned back my eyelids in the midday sun. I would have died within hours but the patrol counter attacked and released me from my bonds but not before my eyes had boiled dry in their sockets.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Martin sitting on the side of the bed.

  ‘It would have been better if they had killed me there and then,’ said Ahmed. ‘A blind man has only begging as a trade and my family starve most days. I am a burden to them and lack the courage to fall on my own blade. Perhaps you could do it for me?’

  ‘Never,’ said the Monk, ‘and strike that thought from your mind. I am here now and will do what I can to help your plight.’

  ‘You owe me nothing Martin. Any debt was always paid in full and it was a sad day when you left. Is Thomas Ruthin with you?’

  ‘No, he died many months ago by an assassin’s blade, though his son travels at my side. That is why I have come, he has a quest to fulfil but needs a trusted guide. I thought you were the man but obviously that is not now possible.’

  ‘Alas, I wish it were,’ said Ahmed. He turned his head to face the girl.

  ‘Misha, take a coin and bring ale from the market for our friend.’

  ‘There are no coins left, master,’ said the girl. ‘They have been used on fodder for the goat.’

  ‘Water is fine,’ said Brother Martin quickly, steering the conversation away from embarrassment on behalf of his friend. ‘Ale disagrees with me these days.’

  ‘Then bring water,’ said Ahmed, ‘and make sure it is clean. Draw fresh from the well.’

  ‘Yes master,’ said the girl and ran quickly down the stairs.

  ‘I thought she was your daughter,’ said Brother Martin.

  ‘No,’ said Ahmed with a sigh. ‘She fills a very unique role in our life, a servant of a beggar. How low is that?’

  ‘A strange situation indeed,’ said Brother Martin. ‘How did this come to pass?’

  ‘I saved her from certain death years ago and she promised service in gratitude. Alas, her life is now as wretched as mine.’

  ‘What stops her from running away?’

  ‘She is from an honourable tribe and has sworn to serve me until the day I die.’

  ‘What family do you have?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Only my wife, Maysam. My sons died at Antioch. Maysam cooks at the Templar Castle but the money barely covers food. Often I sit outside with the begging bowl but the population struggles as much as me. Anyway, enough of my woe, friend, Allah has seen to bestow this fate upon me and I must accept his will. What about you? Tell me of this great quest so I can join you in my dreams.’

  Brother Martin paused, wondering whether to share what he knew. This man had been his most trusted friend for many years and he saw no need to mistrust him now.

  ‘I don’t know the details,’ he said, ‘but I do know this. We have to ride into the Jabahl Bahra.’

  ‘Hashashin territory,’ said Ahmed quietly. ‘This is not a good thing.’

  ‘All I know is this. Ruthin’s son is in possession of a great knowledge. Something so important it can cause peace or war in the Holy-land. He is intent on finding it for the sake of his brother and will travel there with my help or without it. If he goes alone, he will be dead within days.’

  ‘As will you I fear,’ said Ahmed. ‘The lands of the Hashashin are no place for seasoned young men let alone those who gather the years around them like folds of a blanket.’

  ‘I can still handle myself well enough,’ said Brother Martin.

  ‘In your mind, yes but against one half your age, how would you fare?’

  ‘This old dog still has some tricks,’ laughed the Monk. ‘Anyway, we divert from the conversation. Your plight weighs heavy on my heart but it is obvious your scouting days are over.’ He reached beneath his cloak and retrieved two silver coins ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take this. It will feed you and your family for a few weeks.’

  Ahmed felt the coins placed in his palm.

  ‘Your generosity falls second only to the size of your heart, my friend,’ he said. ‘I will accept your gift if only for the sake of my wife.’

  ‘I have to go,’ said the Monk, ‘but promise I will return, God willing.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Ahmed, ‘I think I can help. There is one who knows the valleys of Jabahl Bahra like they know their own hands. I will speak to this person and see if they will accompany you on your quest. Where are you staying?’

  ‘In a house near the Constable’s castle. The door is blackened by fire.’

  ‘We will find it,’ said Ahmed. ‘Travel well my friend. Until the next time.’

  The Monk grabbed the offered hand and gripped it tightly, hating the plight of the man who had ridden alongside him so often.

  ‘Until the next time,’ he said and left the house.

  ----

  The following morning, the sun had not fully risen when Garyn was woken by someone hammering on the door.

  ‘Open up,’ shouted a voice. ‘Sir John of Cambridge demands the attendance of Garyn ap Thomas.’

  Garyn sat up sharply and watched as one of the many men sharing the room raised the bar on the door and allowed a foot soldier entry.

  ‘Who is the one called Garyn ap Thomas?’ he asked.

  ‘I bear that name,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Then you are to come with me immediately,’ said the man. ‘Sir John would have words.’

  ‘The hour is early,’ said Garyn.

  ‘He said it is in your interests to attend immediately,’ said the messenger, ‘he has news of your brother.’

  Garyn clambered to his feet and faced the messenger.

  ‘What news?’ he asked, ‘is Geraint here?’

  ‘I know nothing of the detail,’ said the man, ‘but will say this. It is a brave man who keeps the Castellan waiting.’

  Garyn looked across at Brother Martin who had joined him from a different room.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘No harm in seeing what he wants,’ said the Monk. ‘After all, it is why you came here.’

  Garyn nodded and turned to the messe
nger.

  ‘Give me a moment,’ he said.’

  Ten minutes later they followed the messenger through the quiet streets toward the Castle of the King’s Constable. The guards let them through the gates and they crossed the courtyard before entering the great hall. All around, men were seeing to the business of the morning. Some were cleaning their equipment, some were talking amongst themselves while others still struggled to rise from their mats, their heads aching from the previous night’s revelries.

  ‘It seems there was much celebration,’ said Garyn to Brother Martin.

  ‘It would seem so. An expected indulgence after such a journey, perhaps.’

  ‘This way,’ said the messenger and led them through into a smaller courtyard where a man stood stripped to the waist, splashing water over his browned torso. ‘Sire, said the messenger, ‘Garyn ap Thomas is here.’

  ‘Squire Thomas,’ said Sir John, ‘welcome to Acre.’

  ‘Thank you, Sire but alas I am no Squire.’

  The man nodded before pulling on his linen jerkin.

  ‘And this is?’

  ‘This is Brother Martin. A fellow traveller and close comrade.’

  ‘I have heard your name mentioned,’ said the Castellan, ‘I am Sir John of Cambridge, ‘master of the Castle of the King’s constable. Have you broken your fast?’

  ‘No, Sire,’ said Garyn, ‘we came as soon as we were summoned.’

  ‘Yes, apologies for the hour but I have business outside of the city and seek early departure. Please, sit down and share my fare.’

  The three men sat at a table while servants brought a maize porridge and goat’s milk. They ate in relative silence before Sir John spoke again.

  ‘So,’ he said eventually. ‘Master Garyn. I have heard tell you engage on a quest to save your brother.’

  ‘I do, Sire.’

  ‘Save him from what, exactly.’

  Garyn paused, realising there was no right answer.

  ‘He needs to know his family have died, Sire and I am hoping he will return home to tend our lands alongside me.’

  ‘And what makes you think he will want to go home. Did he not choose this way of life?’

  ‘That is a risk I take, Sire but I have to try. I promised my mother as she took her last breath.’