Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘Then the gates will soon be open,’ said Sir John, ‘the day may still be won.’

  ‘No Sire,’ said the scout. ‘Though you may take the gate, the garrison is on full alert and you will not get halfway up the slopes. Hashashin archers are the best there are and they already man the walls.’

  Sir John looked across at Sir Bennett who stared back at him in silence.

  ‘Withdraw the men,’ he said eventually, ‘I will not send them to their deaths with no chance of victory.’

  Sir Bennett issued the orders and a messenger ran down the hill to pass on the message.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘Retreat to the rendezvous and prepare a defensive position,’ said Sir John, ‘until we know what is happening, we will take no chances. This may quieten down in a few days and we can try again.’ He turned to the scout. ‘You, I want to know what is going on. I don’t care how, just get me some information before nightfall.’

  ‘I will try, Sire,’ said the man and disappeared into the trees once more.

  ----

  Within the hour the Christian column was making its way at full speed back to the glade where they had left their equipment. Sir Bennett organised a defensive perimeter while the rest of the patrol set about building a temporary defence against attack. All day the men cut the smaller trees and lay them across any approaches to the camp. Finally they manned their makeshift defences and though it was no palisade, it would certainly stop a cavalry charge. The camp settled into silence and night approached without event.

  ‘A rider approaches,’ said one of the guards and Sir Bennett stood as he recognised the scout.

  ‘Let him through,’ he said and a few minutes later the scout stood before Sir John.

  ‘Report,’ said the Knight.

  ‘Sire,’ said the scout, ‘we watched the patrol leave the castle in great strength and once they had left, the gates were secured once more. Nobody has been allowed in or out since.’

  ‘Did you find out why?’

  ‘Not at first so we followed the patrol.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They rode into a nearby village with a great anger. Many villagers were beaten and some even killed. Their cries echoed around the forest but there was no mercy and their wrath only eased when they moved on to the next village.’

  ‘Why would they do this?’

  ‘One of my men crept forward and questioned a dying man. It would seem someone had entered the castle overnight and robbed the tomb of one of their ancestors. Some of the villagers had been there the previous day trading supplies and the Hashashin suspect one stayed behind to carry out the deed. It is the only possible way.’

  Sir John’s eyes widened at the news.

  ‘You say a tomb has been robbed,’ he said, ‘did he say the name on the tomb?’

  ‘Yes, Sire, the tomb of the mountain man.’

  Sir John looked at Sir Bennett, his mind racing at the news.

  ‘Sir Bennett, rally the men,’ he said, ‘we leave with the dawn.’

  ‘But the castle,’ said Sir Bennett, ‘do you not want to stay and see if circumstances change?’

  ‘They have already changed,’ said Sir John, ‘and possibly for the better. It wasn’t Muslim hands that desecrated that tomb but Christian and if I am not mistaken, those responsible are headed for Acre even as we speak.’

  ----

  Chapter Twenty

  The Deserts North of Acre

  Garyn and Brother Martin walked along the paths near the coast, their garb dirty from the dusty road. They had retrieved their clothes from the hiding place where they had left them but couldn’t risk approaching a village to buy a horse due to the increased Mamluk patrols in the area. For ten days and nights they stumbled along the hidden paths, hiding in thickets during the day and making what headway they could at night. Weak from hunger they spent the last of each day’s light scouring the shoreline for whatever they could find, often prizing out the flesh of pool shellfish to be eaten raw. Sometimes they used the dark of night to steal whatever they could from local houses or planted fields, before stumbling on again to put some miles between them and the Jabahl Bahra.

  Brother Martin looked over at Garyn. Despite the boy’s resolve the Monk knew he was suffering badly. His feet were covered with bleeding blisters and his skin was raw where his sweat sodden clothing rubbed remorselessly against skin un-toughened by the rigour of warmer climes. They had once more spent the night walking south and it was only an hour or so before the dawn was due to break.

  ‘Enough for the night, Garyn,’ he said eventually. ‘We have made good ground and need to find somewhere to lie up.’

  Garyn didn’t answer but the Monk saw a hint of relief on his face.

  ‘Come, he said, we will go down to the shore.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Those sores will become infected if left untreated.’

  ‘And I suppose you have an apothecary waiting upon the sands?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘We have no need of false potions,’ said the Monk. ‘Nature will provide what we need.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Salt water,’ said the Monk. ‘You need to bathe your wounds.’

  ‘Since when does sea water heal?’

  ‘It may not heal but it should stop any infection taking hold,’ answered the Monk. They turned down the slope of the hill and headed toward the shoreline, walking along the narrow strip of sand, seeking a sheltered place to rest.

  ‘This will have to do,’ said the Monk as they came across some weather blown bracken. ‘There’s a stream over there, you strip and bathe in the sea while I wash our clothes.’

  ‘Why don’t I just wear my clothes in the sea?’

  ‘Because when they dry off, they will be covered with salt and that will irritate your skin even more. No, you bathe and wash your sores well. When done, come back here and get dressed. The clothes will be wet but the sun rises soon and we will dry off quick enough.’

  Garyn nodded silently too exhausted to argue further. Twenty minutes later he returned, shivering in the morning air.

  ‘Here said the Monk, I have rung them out as much as I can but they are still wet. You will be cold for a while but that will pass. As soon as you are warm, crawl into the bracken and pull the leaves down over you, they will protect you from the sun.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘I will join you shortly,’ said the Monk. ‘I need to see to my own hygiene and I think there may be fish in the stream. I will try to catch us a meal.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘It is a one man job, Garyn. You get some sleep and I will join you soon enough.’

  Garyn nodded, his eyes already heavy from exhaustion.

  ‘How much further, Brother Martin?’ he asked.

  ‘Not far now,’ said the Monk, ‘we are almost there.’

  Garyn smiled and after getting into his wet clothes, crawled into the hiding place.

  The Monk sat for an age, knowing full well they were not even half way to Acre and the boy’s injuries were holding them back. He sat pondering everything they had been through and knew if it carried on like this, neither would survive the journey. Though he had a commitment to Garyn, he also had a commitment to the cross. Finally he made a decision and picking up Garyn’s pack, walked away from the sleeping boy, heading inland without as much as a backward glance.

  ----

  ‘Sire we have news,’ said the Scout.

  ‘Sir John stood up from the camp fire,’ in anticipation.

  ‘What news?’ he asked.

  ‘Two men in western garb were chased from a farm west of here a few nights ago. They were stealing crops but the farmer caught them in the act.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘I don’t know Sire but it is said they were last seen heading south along the coast.’

  ‘It must be them,’ said Sir John, his excitement rising. His patrols had spent the las
t ten days scouring the country between Jabahl Bahra and Acre, questioning everyone they found about any strangers in the area. Ordinarily the countryside would be too dangerous for such activity but further east, Longshanks’ formidable army was busy engaging the Halqas of Sultan Baibaars and the resulting tensions meant the Mamluk presence in the immediate area was minimal.

  ‘Send your men in pursuit,’ ordered Sir John and if you find them, bring me their heads as evidence but let me make one thing clear, you will bring all their possessions back with you unopened. Do this and I will make you a rich man but if I think you have cast your eyes on that forbidden to you, then I will hang you from the nearest tree along with your comrades. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ said the scout.

  ‘Then be gone,’ said the Knight and turned to Sir Bennett.

  ‘Place guards at all approaches to Acre. Send word to the city, they are to send out foot patrols to intercept any approaching the walls. I want a ring of steel surrounding the city.’

  ‘Yes Sire,’ said Sir Bennett.

  ‘Once the cordon is made,’ continued Sir John, ‘I want you to take the Knights and run them down like the thieves they are. Our fortune has changed, friend and our future just took a step upward. If they possess what I think they do, a place at the court of Henry surely awaits us both. This is a chance too great to miss, failure is not an option.’

  ‘Then rest assured I will succeed or die trying.’

  ‘The sentiment is appreciated, Sir Bennett though unnecessary. They are but a boy and an old Monk. What resistance could they possibly offer?’

  ‘I hear the Monk once wore the spurs of Knighthood.’

  ‘A mercenary, no more,’ said Sir John, ‘and his days have long passed. No, once they have been found they will be swatted like the flies they are and we can pursue our destiny unhindered. Rouse the men, Sir Bennett, the final stretch is before us.’

  ----

  Garyn stood at the side of the thicket staring at the line of footprints disappearing across the sand. He had slept most of the day through and the sun was already setting in the west. At first he was confused, as it was obvious the Monk had not taken shelter at all and there was no sign of him. Thinking the worst he ran back to the thicket and searched for his pack but it had gone, along with the cross. Garyn’s heart sank. The Monk’s words of doubt days earlier had finally turned to reality and he must have succumbed to temptation. Brother Martin had deserted Garyn and taken the cross with him.

  Garyn slumped to his knees in fatigue. After everything he had been through, it was over. His wounds meant he could hardly walk, he was in a strange country with no food and the only man able to help had deserted him when he needed him most. For an age he sat in the sand until finally he stood and started walking south. He had no idea what he was going to do, but the one thing he wouldn’t do was give up.

  ----

  Brother Martin walked for a day and a night, always heading south and at first his mind was set, he would travel to Rome and present the cross to the church but the further he went, the greater the doubts became until finally he sat at a forest edge above a tiny fishing village. No matter what the importance of the relic to Christianity, his heart was heavy for though he had the death of many men on his hands, the fact that he had abandoned the boy stabbed at his heart with more pain than the sharpest blade. Silently he prayed for forgiveness but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t reconcile the boy’s certain death with the safety of the Relic. In the cold light of day, the cross was gold and wood. Put against flesh and bone, surely there was no comparison. Over the years many men had died for this relic and he would not be responsible for any more. He stood up and stared down at the village. The Devil had tempted him with avarice and for a while he had succumbed but now the Lord had made the way clear. One soul was greater than all the gold in Christendom and he knew what he had to do. Without a backward glance, he strode down into the village, hoping deep in his heart that he hadn’t left it too late.

  ----

  Garyn ran through the trees, gasping for breath as the whip-like branches cut across his face. For three days he had wandered alone, half-starved and light-headed through exhaustion. In desperation he had stolen some bread from a passing traveller, waving his knife as a threat but no sooner had he stumbled away than the man raised the alarm and Garyn was chased into the woods by a baying crowd. He knew he could not escape them and his only hope lay in hiding amongst the trees but he was far from the thicker forests of the north and the small copse soon petered out before him. Within moments he was left facing sparse scrubland leading down to the water’s edge. In panic he ran along the shore but finally stumbled and landed face down on the jagged rocks. Blood poured from his forehead as he turned to face his pursuers in desperation. He had no more strength to flee, his race was run and his fate was no longer his own. He was done.

  The shouting of the villagers filled the air as they ran toward him but above their voices was something stronger, the sound of a man calling out his name.

  ‘Garyn!’

  He looked around but the shoreline was empty.

  ‘Garyn!’ came the call again, ‘out here.’

  He turned to face the sea and saw a small fishing boat off shore. At its helm was a man he had never seen before but in the centre stood the Monk.

  ‘Brother Martin,’ gasped the boy.

  ‘Quickly,’ shouted the Monk, ‘come to me.’

  Garyn got to his feet and stumbled toward the water’s edge. He splashed through the waves and was soon up to his chest but the boat was still several yards away. Behind him most of the screaming mob had stopped at the water’s edge though some pursued him with knives drawn.

  ‘Swim,’ shouted the Monk.

  ‘I can’t,’ answered Garyn. ‘I don’t know how to.’

  ‘Swim or die, Garyn,’ shouted the Monk.

  A knife spun past Garyn’s head and he forced himself forward. Within seconds he was submerged, panicking as the water filled his mouth. His feet found the bottom and he pushed off hard, bursting from the surface to gasp for air. Again he sank and once more pushed off the sea bed but this time as he surfaced, the weight of a thrown rope fell across his face. Frantically he took hold and the Monk pulled him in.

  ‘Get us out of here,’ shouted Brother Martin as the sailor pulled hard on the tiller. The Monk pulled the boy over the edge to fall gasping into the bottom of the boat. Behind them the mob returned to the shore, shouting insults after the escapees, while Brother Martin stared landward in silence, a look of concern on his face.

  Garyn stood up and joined him by the mast.

  ‘I thought you had forsaken me,’ he said.

  ‘As did I,’ said the Monk, ‘but we have other worries to concern us before we address the issue.’

  ‘We are safe,’ said Garyn, ‘they cannot reach us out here.’

  ‘It is not the anger of those peasants that causes me angst, Garyn but the wrath of a man whose greed has blinded his faith.’ He nodded toward the high ground behind the shore. Up on the hill, a patrol of ten armoured horsemen stood quietly in the fading light, watching the events unfold below. Eventually the Knight at the head of the patrol turned his horse and rode out of sight, closely followed by his men.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Unless I am mistaken, they are Knights of Acre.’

  Garyn looked up with hope.

  ‘Then surely we should summon their aid,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said the Monk. ‘If they answer to Sir John then we would be as flies into a web. Don’t forget, he covets the relic and I feel he will stop at nothing to make it his. Our only chance is to reach one of the other orders and seek sanctuary. The Hospitallers or the Templars are pious men and will protect us from his greed.’

  ‘Then surely,’ said Garyn weakly, ‘all we need to do is sail down the coast to Acre and seek their aid.’

  ‘It is indeed what I planned,’ said the Monk, ‘but alas that optio
n has been denied us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Sir John has access to his own fleet. Once word of our situation reaches him, he will send ships to pluck us from the sea.’

  ‘Then what are we to do?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘The services of this boat cost most of my coins,’ said the Monk, ‘but I have enough left for a horse. At least this man’s village falls under the influence of Acre and we can buy a steed in safety. They will be expecting us to travel by sea so may relax any patrols seeking our whereabouts. Perhaps we can now reach the city overland and sneak in unseen.’

  ‘I don’t see why we don’t allow ourselves to be captured and be done with it,’ said Garyn. ‘He will get the cross and I will get the release of my brother.’

  ‘No,’ said the Monk. ‘He will want the details of the cross kept secret to meet his own ends. If we hand it over, what’s to stop him killing us and your brother?’

  ‘So what do you propose?’

  ‘A public exchange before men of honour. If witnessed by fellow Knights then not even Sir John would go back on his word. He would be forced to release him into your care without threat of retribution.’

  ‘And that is the only way?’

  ‘It is.’

  Garyn sat down and tilted his head back, exhausted. The sailor brought over a loaf and a flask of wine along with a platter of cold but cooked fish.

  ‘Eat,’ said the Monk, ‘it has been a while.’

  Garyn needed no second invitation and tore pieces of bread from the loaf before ripping at the fish.

  ‘Steady, Garyn,’ said the Monk, ‘or the fish bones will do for you long before Sir John’s henchmen.’

  Garyn washed down the first mouthful with wine before staring at the Monk again.

  ‘Where is the cross?’ he asked.

  ‘Fret not, Garyn, it is within my pack.’

  ‘You left me to die back there’

  ‘I did,’ said the Monk, ‘I felt the task we have set ourselves was an impossible one and unlikely to succeed. I couldn’t bear the thought of the cross falling into the hands of the English royalty, so I sought a way out and grasped at the easy option.’