Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ answered Sir John, but inside his heart he was already planning the retrieval of a bounty far greater than anything the servant could imagine and if that meant all the prisoners and all the men present in the hall would die in the process, then so be it.

  ----

  The darkness fell as if God had thrown a blanket over the land. Garyn saw to the horses while Misha and Brother Martin scurried around searching for firewood before it got too dark to see.

  ‘We should have stopped earlier,’ said the Monk.

  ‘A cold night is a small price to pay for the security of cover,’ answered the girl.

  Brother Martin looked around at the dense thicket that was their home for the night. The tangled brush provided a thorned barrier and meant that anyone approaching would be heard long before they came upon the travellers. They had ridden hard along dried stream beds and hidden valleys before turning back east toward the coast and the Monk was glad to have reached the refuge to ease the aches of the ride. Finally they sat around a small fire eating dried strips of goat meat and sipping water from the skins Misha had loaded onto a pack horse.

  ‘So,’ said Brother Martin, ‘this is it, Garyn, the Holy-land. Sitting around a tiny fire, eating meat as tough as leather and hoping we are not killed in the next few minutes. Is this how you envisaged your Crusade?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Garyn, ‘I worry only for my brother.’

  ‘He will be fine,’ said the Monk. ‘All we need to do is return with the relic. If we can do that, I’m sure we can buy his freedom.’

  ‘If we can find it,’ said Garyn. ‘It seems to me our fate changes by the minute and I’m not even sure where we are going.’

  ‘I have been told only take you to Jabahl Bahra,’ said Misha, ‘and know nothing of what you seek.’

  ‘Then perhaps now is the time to explain,’ said Brother Martin. ‘Garyn was told a tale by a poet who once stayed at Al Kahf and the words relate to the resting place of one of Christendom’s most sacred relic, the remains of the true cross.’

  ‘And what is that exactly?’ said Garyn.

  ‘It is said that when Christ was taken down from the cross his disciples took away the timbers and hid them from the Romans. In time, when the region embraced Christianity, it reappeared and became the object of pilgrimage for many years. They were troubled times and the continued fighting saw it taken from Jerusalem to Constantinople before being returned to Jerusalem hundreds of years later. By now it had been carved up and only a small piece remained, set into a bejewelled crucifix of solid gold.’

  ‘Which explains the interest I suppose,’ said Garyn.

  ‘On the contrary, compared with the treasures of Kings and Sultans, the gold and jewels are paltry. No the value is in the sliver of wood embedded in the gold itself for it represents the cross upon which our lord died. Any man in possession of this relic could demand his own price or cause wars to be waged in its name.’

  ‘So how do you know where it is?’

  ‘The cross was taken from the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem during the first crusade but was captured by Sah-la-Dhin at the battle of Hattin. Many tried to buy it from the Sultan but it was never seen again, not even when Lionheart demanded it in return for the lives of three thousand prisoners. Sah-la-Dhin promised its return but when he didn’t keep his word, Richard had the prisoners executed.’

  ‘Three thousand slain by Christian blade…’ said Garyn quoting from the poem.

  ‘Exactly,’ said the Monk. ‘The horned gaze refers to the twin Volcanoes that overlooked the battle of Hattin but that much was already known. What wasn’t known was the fate of the cross and the thought was that Sah-la-Dhin sacrificed those prisoners out of stubbornness. If your poem is to be believed, it seems he did not have it for it was in the hands of one of his other enemies, the Ismailis.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘A secretive people who dominate the Jabahl Bahra mountains,’ said the Monk, ‘led by someone called Rashid ad-Din Sinan. Twice they fought back the armies of Sah-la-Dhin and it is said he withdrew only after he had come close to death by the hands of the Hashashin, a sect of the Ismailis who perfect the art of silent murder.’

  ‘Sah-la-Din was almost murdered?’ asked Garyn in surprise.

  ‘He was, the story is that he woke to find a message from the Hashashin left in his sleeping tent as a sign of how easy it was to get to him. Sah-la-Dhin swore it was left by Rashid ad-Din Sinan himself and ordered his councillors to make immediate peace with the Ismailis. The story is a strange one for the Hashashin are not known for their mercy and the death of Sah-la-Dhin would have been a great victory for them but for some reason they let him live despite the opportunity. Some wonder if Sah-la-Dhin actually bought his life that night but no mention has ever been made of any price paid.’

  ‘And you think he may have handed over the cross?’

  ‘It’s what your poet believed,’ said the Monk, ‘and it makes sense. The cross was invaluable and easily worth a Sultan’s life. The relic disappeared from history and no mention of it was ever made again. This makes sense for a man as great as Sah-la-Dhin would never have admitted to such an act and despite their lethal reputation, the Hashashin are men of their word. Neither side would have mentioned the transaction.’

  ‘But surely all this is guesswork.’

  ‘It is,’ said the Monk, ‘but why would a man pass on this information with his dying breath? It also ties in with why Sah-la-Dhin could not produce the cross at Acre, when Lionheart slaughtered the prisoners.’

  ‘So you think it is somewhere in the castle of Jabahl Bahra.’

  ‘I do,’ said the Monk, ‘in a castle called Al Kahf, the castle of the cave. It was Rashid ad-Din Sinan’s stronghold and has never been taken by any enemy. The poem refers to a mountain man and Sinan was also known as the old man of the mountain. I believe he is the final link to the location of the cross.’

  ‘But surely he died almost a hundred years ago.’

  ‘He did,’ said the Monk, ‘but your poem makes the location clear. Where do all men eventually sleep and entrust their bones?’

  Garyn’s eyes widened in understanding as the poem finally made sense.

  ‘Sinan is buried in the castle,’ he said quietly

  ‘He is,’ said the Monk, ‘and that’s where I expect to find the cross. In the grave of the mountain man, Rashid ad-Din Sinan.’

  ----

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ said Garyn. ‘Why would a Muslim King be buried with a crucifix? To take a cross to his grave goes against everything they believe. I heard they worship the devil himself.’

  ‘Oh no, Garyn,’ said the Monk. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. The God of the Muslims is the same one worshipped by Christians in the scriptures of the church and though they acknowledge Jesus was born of the Virgin Mary and carried the word of God, they maintain he was but an apostle and not his son.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We believe that God is all holy and neither begets nor is begotten,’ said Misha.

  ‘So who was Muhammad?’

  ‘A prophet who came after Jesus.’

  ‘So you accept Jesus died on the cross?’

  ‘No. We believe that he ascended into heaven whilst still alive and that another man died in his place. ‘

  ‘So I ask again,’ said Garyn, ‘why would there be a cross in the grave of a Muslim?’

  ‘It certainly wouldn’t be for religious purposes,’ said the Monk. ‘Perhaps it was put there as a gift, or a sign of dominance over the Christian invaders. It may even have been put there after he died by someone else. Think about it, what better place to hide something so important to Christians? It would be the last place they would expect to find it. We may never know but the point is, if the poem is correct then the cross lies there.’

  ‘So what happens next?’ asked Garyn.

  The Monk turned to face Misha.

&nbs
p; ‘Well, that’s in the hands of this young lady. You should ask her.’

  Misha looked up from the fire.

  ‘I can get you into the Castle,’ she said, ‘but will not desecrate the grave of any man.’

  ‘Understandable,’ said the Monk. ‘How long will it take to get there?’

  ‘If we travelled the road, ten days but we will take a different route. An extra three days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can keep you alive,’ she said. ‘The countryside is thick with Mamluks and even if we get past them, the Jabahl Bahra will be filled with the eyes of Hashashin. This way, if we are lucky, the journey will be uneventful and the danger will lie only in the approach to the castle.’

  Brother Martin nodded in agreement.

  ‘It makes sense,’ he said. ‘What route will we take?’

  ‘Along the coast,’ said the girl, ‘and then head inland. After tomorrow, we will travel by night only and lay up during the day.’

  The conversation gradually waned alongside the receding flames and the group finally rolled themselves in their sleeping blankets against the chill of the night air, unaware that back in Acre, a powerful unit of men were already being armed and provisioned for a similar journey, led by someone who also had his heart set on retrieving the cross.

  ----

  Brother Khoury sat amongst the rest of the prisoners. His head was down and his heart was heavy. His once bald head was now a tangled mess of hair which intertwined with the greying beard about his filthy face. Sores festered from the continued beatings he had suffered at the hands of his captors but it was not the wounds that caused him the greatest pain, but the fact he had been imprisoned in the dungeons of his own castle for almost a year. Silently he had endured everything his captors had thrown at him, praying each evening for forgiveness until finally they had forgotten about him and his jailers kept him alive only for the ransom value. Eventually the deal had been made and over twenty prisoners were dragged from their cells and blindfolded before being loaded onto carts to be traded for a ransom from the Castellan of Acre.

  For several days they had travelled north until finally their blindfolds had been removed and they were herded into a disused building along with other Christian prisoners from across the Holy-land. At first he kept his own counsel and tried to sleep in the crowded room, the combined body heat the only blessing in the mass of stinking prisoners. He was awake long before dawn and watched as the light crept through the slats of the wooden shutters to fall on the faces of his fellow prisoners. He had been locked alone in a dungeon for almost a year and these people were the first he had seen apart from his jailers. Slowly he looked around the room. Suddenly his eyes opened in surprise and confusion as he recognised the bedraggled woman curled into a corner, Her hair was a mess but the colour was unmistakable. Khoury got to his feet and walked across the room before falling to his knees before her.

  ‘Lady Jennifer,’ he said quietly, ‘Jennifer of Orange, is it truly you?’

  The woman opened her eyes and stared at the unkempt man before her.

  ‘Do I know you?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘We met once,’ said Khoury, ‘in Acre. I was asking your husband for aid and I knocked you over.’

  The woman smiled as she recalled the meeting.

  ‘I remember,’ she whispered lifting her hand to touch his face. ‘You are the Hospitaller Knight.’

  ‘I was,’ said Khoury. ‘Now I am destitution itself, hoping for forgiveness from God.’

  ‘Why, what have you done?’

  ‘I know not but am sure he has a plan for me. How are you here?’

  ‘I was sent to Tripoli by my loving husband,’ she sneered. ‘But the Mamluks had other ideas.’

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I have been better,’ she said.

  Khoury moved closer and lifted a strand of hair from across her face.

  ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘You don’t want to know what they did to me,’ she said, her voice breaking.

  Khoury pulled her in to his embrace and she sobbed against his chest.

  ‘Be strong, Lady,’ he said. ‘Something is happening and I believe we are to be ransomed.’

  She looked up at him and used the heel of her hand to wipe away the tears.

  ‘Do you think so?’ she asked.

  ‘I do,’ he said, ‘but there is still danger. There is much distrust between the two sides and often these things go wrong, You must be strong and hold out until the deal is done.’

  ‘I have no more strength to give,’ she said. ‘They have taken everything.’

  ‘Then I will be your strength,’ he said. ‘From now you must stay by my side. I will protect you the best I can and though ultimately your fate is in the hands of the Lord, until that day comes I will do everything to protect you.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ she said, wiping at the tears once more.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘all Knights need a Crusade, your safety will become mine. It is you who are saving me.’

  The door swung open and a Mamluk guard threw in two skins of water. Fighting broke out amongst the men as they scrambled to reach the skins but Khoury strode amongst them and used his giant frame to pull them apart.

  ‘Behave like the soldiers you once were,’ he shouted, ‘rather than the wretches you have become. There are women amongst us who thirst as much as we. They will drink first and the rest will be shared equally.’

  He walked over to the three women and handed them one skin of water.

  ‘Drink deep,’ he said, ‘for who knows when we will next have the opportunity?’

  ----

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Lands North of Acre

  For the next twelve days, Misha led Garyn and Brother Martin through deserted valleys and hidden Wadis, keeping to the lesser trails known only to the local herdsmen of the area. Though the nights were cold, they made good time as the clear skies ensured good visibility. Slowly the terrain became greener as they neared the mountains and soon they were within the thick forests that covered the Jabahl Bahra region. Finally Misha reined in her horse and dismounted, indicating the others to do the same.

  ‘The Castle is less than an hour’s ride that way,’ she said, ‘but from here we will walk. Do you have any coins.’

  ‘I do,’ said Brother Martin, ‘why?’

  ‘There is a village down near the river and I know a family there. Their son is a goatherd and for a price he will watch our horses while we are away.’

  ‘Won’t they be Ismailis?’

  ‘They are but like all such peoples, the poor are kept so by the rich. They have nothing and hold no such allegiance to the Hashashin.’

  The Monk nodded and retrieved a purse from beneath his robe.

  ‘Two coins,’ said Misha, ‘one for each day we are away. If we are not back by then, we never will be.’ She took the silver and disappeared down the hill.

  ‘Do you think she will return?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘I do,’ said the Monk. ‘Come, we should hide within the thickets.’

  Hours passed and Garyn fell asleep against the trunk of a tree before eventually being woken by a gentle kick against his leg. He jumped up instantly, surprised to see Misha back along with a boy about half her age.

  ‘Misha,’ he said, ‘I never heard you coming.’

  ‘No,’ she said simply, ‘you wouldn’t. This is the boy I spoke of.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked the Monk.

  ‘His name is no concern of yours,’ said Misha. ‘Just know that he will wait here until dawn the day after tomorrow. That gives us the remains of this night as well as tomorrow to retrieve what you seek. Eat what you can now and travel lightly. We will have to walk through the day to be there by nightfall tomorrow but there are paths I know that will keep us hidden. In case we are seen, you will wear these.’ She threw them each a white thawb, the dress of the desert Arabs.

  ‘What use are these?
’ asked the Monk. ‘If we are challenged our skin alone will betray our race.’

  ‘They are intended to deceive distant eyes only,’ she said. ‘If we are challenged then all will be lost anyway. We will walk quickly and keep to the lesser paths. Hopefully any who see us will be of a similar mind of this boy’s village and pay us no heed.’

  ‘And if we are seen by one of the Hashashin?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Then we are already dead,’ said Misha. ‘Now, strip away your heavy western clothing and leave your swords behind.’

  ‘Won’t we need weapons?’

  ‘You will not get an opportunity to use a sword, she said, ‘Knives will be adequate. Now hurry, we need to leave soon if we are to reach Al Kahf by nightfall tomorrow.’

  Ten minutes later they left the horses behind them and started up the steep slopes leading toward the higher mountains.

  ----

  Twenty miles away, a force of a hundred Knights and two hundred men at arms also camped within the trees though relied on force rather than subterfuge to protect them from any enemies. Sir John had brought his column from Acre and they now waited patiently near to Wadi al Ayun for the exchange of prisoners to take place. Representatives of both sides had made contact and the arrangements had been made for dawn a few hours later in a nearby clearing.

  As the sun rose Sir John of Cambridge sat shivering on his horse, waiting for the sun’s warmth to penetrate the trees above. The clearing before him was empty but as the darkness fell away he could see a line of kneeling prisoners along the forest edge, each with a Mamluk swordsman directly behind them. From amongst the trees two riders emerged and rode to the centre of the clearing.

  Sir John looked along the line of bedraggled prisoners and soon made out the red hair of his wife hanging down to the floor before her bowed head. For a second his heart seemed to miss a beat as memories of better times came flooding back, but he soon put aside his thoughts and reminded himself of his true goal and the risky actions that were about to unfold before him.

  ‘Is everything ready?’ he asked the Knight at his side.