by Hight, Jack
Shirkuh’s smile faded as he inspected Yusuf more closely.
‘What happened to your face, boy? Your nose looks to be broken.’
‘A polo match.’
‘Polo, eh? Did you win?’
Yusuf smiled, despite the pain it caused his swollen lip. ‘I did.’
Shirkuh squeezed his shoulder. ‘Well done.’
Turan now stepped forward. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Uncle.’ The two exchanged three kisses, the proper greeting between adult relatives. ‘I am pleased to see you.’
‘And I am pleased to see you—all of you,’ Shirkuh replied. ‘It has been far too long.’
‘Now, go and look after your horses,’ Ayub told his sons.
‘Your uncle and I have business to discuss.’
‘Yes, Father,’ Yusuf said, echoed by his brothers.
‘I will see you all tonight, at supper,’ Shirkuh called after them as they hurried from the courtyard.
The three boys reached the entrance way, but they did not continue on to the stables. Instead, Turan turned right and pulled open the door leading to the living quarters. ‘Where are you going?’ Selim asked. ‘What about the horses?’
‘There’s time for the horses later, Selim,’ Yusuf told him.
‘After we find out what they are talking about,’ Turan agreed.
Yusuf pulled the door shut behind them, careful to make no noise, and the three of them hurried down the hallway, past sleeping chambers and the weaving-room, with its huge loom holding a half-woven carpet. They turned the corner and raced down another hallway to a heavy wooden door. It was already slightly ajar. Turan pushed it open, and the three of them stepped into a dark room. Hundreds of fleeces were stacked five deep against the far wall, filling the air with their musky smell. The wool was this year’s tribute from Yusuf’s father’s vassals, stored here until it could be worked, sold or sent on to their father’s lord, Nur ad-Din, in Aleppo. The stacks reached almost to the ceiling, and at the end of the pile, directly across from the door, the white soles of two bare feet were just visible.
‘Who’s there?’ Turan asked.
The feet disappeared, replaced a second later by a face. It was their sister, Zimat. She was older than all of them, thirteen and already a woman. Zimat was stunningly beautiful, and she knew it. She had flawless skin the colour of golden sand, long black hair and brilliantly white teeth, which she showed now as she grinned at them. ‘It’s me,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been listening.’
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Turan told her. ‘Get out!’
Zimat did not move. ‘Shush, you big ox!’ she hissed. ‘They’ll hear you.’
‘This is no business of yours, woman,’ Turan grumbled as he climbed up beside her. Yusuf noticed that Turan slid in unnecessarily close to his sister, pressing his side against her. Zimat shot him a warning glance and moved away. Yusuf climbed up next, the raw wool scratching his face and arms as he pulled himself up the side. Once on top of the pile, he crawled forward in the narrow space between the wool and the ceiling, and took his place on the other side of Zimat. She had opened the shutters that covered the window a few inches, but Yusuf could see nothing through the thin crack between them except a sliver of the courtyard pool, flickering torchlight reflecting off its surface.
He could just hear the voices of his father and uncle, but they were too far off to make out what was being said.
‘What are they talking about?’ he asked Zimat.
‘Something about a king,’ she whispered. ‘From a place called France.’
‘That is the kingdom of the Franks!’ Yusuf said. ‘Across the sea.’
‘Who are the Franks?’ Selim asked as he slid in beside Yusuf.
Zimat rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you know anything? They are monsters from over the seas. Bloodthirsty savages who eat children like you!’
‘Quiet,’ Turan told them. ‘They’re coming closer.’
Yusuf strained to hear. His father was speaking. ‘When will they land, and where?’
‘Acre and Antioch,’ Shirkuh replied. The two men stopped, and Yusuf could see the backs of their heads through the crack in the shutters. ‘As for when, I do not know. Perhaps they have landed already.’
‘How many?’
‘Thousands. Enough to take Damascus, perhaps even Aleppo.’
‘Allah save us,’ Yusuf’s father said. ‘My home and most of what I possess are in Damascus. And if Aleppo and our lord Nur ad-Din fall, then all is lost for us. We have already left two homes behind, Brother. Where would we go next?’
‘It will not come to that, inshallah.’
‘God willing?’ Ayub asked. ‘God turned his back on me the day Baalbek fell.’
‘Careful, Brother, you speak blasphemy.’ The two men stood silent for a moment, then Shirkuh continued. ‘The crusade is dangerous, yes, but it is also an opportunity. Nur ad-Din has a task for you. If you are successful, then you will find yourself restored to his favour.’
‘You have my ear. Speak on, Brother.’
‘Our people are divided. The Fatimids in Egypt quarrel with the Abbasid caliphate in Baghdad. The Seljuks threaten our lord from the north, while Emir Unur in Damascus has allied himself with the Franks. The Christians have exploited these divisions to build their kingdom, but if we join forces, they cannot stand against us. This Crusade can help bind us together. Nur ad-Din asks that you go to Unur and tell him what I have told you. Persuade him to ally with our lord.’
‘I will go, but I do not think Unur will listen.’
‘He will when the Franks march on his city. Fear will bring him to us.’
‘Inshallah.’
‘Inshallah,’ Shirkuh repeated. ‘You should take Turan and Yusuf with you. It is time that they learned their place in the world.’
‘Turan, yes, but Yusuf is too young.’
‘Perhaps, but there is something special about that one.’
‘Yusuf?’ Ayub scoffed. ‘He has been cursed with fits. He will never be a warrior.’
‘Do not be so sure.’
Yusuf did not hear the rest, for Ayub and Shirkuh had moved on, and their voices faded away. ‘Did you hear?’ Turan asked, his eyes shining. ‘Thousands of Franks: this means war! And I am going!’
‘I heard them,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Father said that Damascus might fall.’
‘You’re not afraid, are you, little brother?’ Turan jibed. He exaggerated his breathing, mimicking one of Yusuf’s fits. ‘Afraid—’ gasp ‘—the terrible Franks—’ gasp ‘—will come and get you.’
‘Stop that!’ Zimat ordered. ‘Don’t be childish, Turan.’
‘Zimat!’ It was their mother calling. ‘Where are you? You are supposed to be stirring the mishmishiyya!’
‘I must go.’ Zimat slid down from the pile of fleeces and hurried out.
‘We should go too,’ Yusuf said. ‘If we don’t see to the horses before dinner, Father will have our hides.’
Yusuf arrived at the evening meal freshly scrubbed, wearing a white cotton caftan, the ends of the billowing sleeves embroidered red and the middle belted with red wool. His clothes were immaculate, but his eyes were red and his nose swollen. Ibn Jumay, the family doctor, had seen to him, and the Jew’s treatment had been almost worse than Yusuf’s injuries. First, Ibn Jumay had reset Yusuf’s nose, clucking all the while about the dangers of polo. He had then made Yusuf smoke kunnab leaves in order to reduce the pain and bring down the swelling. The pipe was hardly out of his mouth before Ibn Jumay had smeared Yusuf’s nose inside and out with a noxious unguent that smelled of rotten eggs. The doctor had said the mixture would prevent infection. It would certainly keep Yusuf from enjoying dinner.
In honour of their guest, the floor of the dining room had been covered with the family’s best rug – soft goat hair knotted on to a warp of wool, forming patterns of swirling red flowers and white starbursts against a yellow background. The room was bare of any other decoration, save for a low table that ran down the middle, sur
rounded by cushions of yellow saffron-stained cotton stuffed with wool. Yusuf took his place at the middle of the table, across from Selim. To his right, Turan sat across from their father, and Shirkuh sat at the head of the table. To Yusuf’s left were Zimat and Yusuf’s mother, Basimah. She was an older, fuller version of Zimat, still beautiful despite the streaks of silver in her long black hair. Normally, they would not have appeared in the presence of a male guest, but Shirkuh was family.
The meal that Basimah and her two kitchen servants had prepared to welcome Shirkuh exceeded even her usual high standards. Crisp, freshly baked flatbread and a roasted eggplant and walnut dip were followed by a divine apricot stew, the sweet fruit blending perfectly with savoury morsels of lamb. Yusuf sighed. It was his favourite dish, but thanks to Ibn Jumay, everything tasted like rotten eggs. Yusuf ignored the food and listened to Ayub and Shirkuh, desperate to know if he would be joining his father on his mission to Damascus. But as the stew gave way to lentils and roast lamb, Ayub and Shirkuh continued to talk of mundane matters: harvests, the size of their herds and that year’s tribute.
Finally, after the last dish had been cleared away, and servants had brought cups of sweet orange juice to refresh them, Yusuf’s father cleared his throat and clapped his hands twice to get their attention. ‘Shirkuh has brought troubling news. The Franks have launched a second crusade. The French king and queen are expected to land in Antioch any day now. They may be there already.’
‘Allah help us!’ Basimah exclaimed. ‘This means war.’
‘That it does,’ Shirkuh agreed. ‘And it will be all we can do to turn back the Franks. Our spies say they are bringing hundreds of knights, with those accursed warhorses of theirs. We will need every sword that we can muster.’
‘I will fight!’ Yusuf declared. ‘I am old enough.’
Basimah frowned, but Shirkuh smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm. Ayub’s face remained an expressionless mask as he turned his hard, grey eyes on his son. Yusuf sat up straight and returned his searching stare. Finally, his father nodded. ‘We must all do our part. That is why I must go to Damascus. Tomorrow, my men and I will leave for the city. Turan and Yusuf will come with me.’ Yusuf could not contain his smile.
‘Turan and Yusuf will—not—go!’ Basimah stated, her voice rising with each word. ‘You will not take my sons to be murdered by those barbarians.’
‘Peace, Wife,’ Ayub replied, his voice calm and even. ‘You forget your place.’
‘No, Husband, you forget yours. It is your duty to protect your sons, and yet you propose to lead them like lambs to the slaughter. Do you want them to be taken and sold as slaves? To come of age amidst the infidels?’
‘Our sons will not be taken. I am not bringing them to fight, but they are of an age when they must learn the ways of war. They must come to know our enemy.’
‘And if Damascus falls, what then? The Franks are savages. They know nothing of God or mercy. They know only blood and the sword. They killed my father, my mother, my brother. They—’ Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away. ‘They did horrible things. They will not kill my sons!’
‘If Damascus falls, then your sons will not be safe anywhere,’ Shirkuh said gently. ‘You cannot protect them forever, Basimah.’
Basimah opened her mouth to retort, but Ayub raised his hand, stopping her. ‘I give you my word that no harm will befall Turan or Yusuf. They are my sons, too.’
Basimah’s head fell. ‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘Come, Zimat. There is work to be done. Let us leave these men to their talk.’ She rose and ushered Zimat out, but then stopped in the doorway. When Basimah turned back to them, her eyes shone with tears. ‘I have your word, Ayub. You will bring my children back to me.’
Chapter 2
APRIL TO JUNE 1148: ACRE
John leaned over the ship’s rail and vomited into the sparkling, clear blue waters of Acre harbour. His company of knights had been at sea for a week, sailing down the coast of Outremer from Attalia, and John had been miserably sick the entire trip. Still, he thanked God that he had not been left behind, prey to hunger, thirst and the devilish Seljuk Turks. They had shadowed the crusading army throughout the long march across the arid lands of Anatolia, swooping down after dark on their sleek horses and riddling the crusaders with arrows before melting back into the night like ghosts. The Seljuks had killed thousands, and when the leaders of the crusade took a handful of men and sailed from Attalia, thousands more had been left to the Turks’ mercy. At sixteen, John was only a foot-soldier, but his noble blood had entitled him to a place on the ships. At least it was good for something, he thought, and then puked again.
John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at the city of Acre. Ships lined the curving quay, their tall masts bare of sails. On the decks, sailors were busy unloading casks, sacks of grain and bleating sheep. Beyond the ships, the harbour was crowded with market stalls, and past them sat square, dusty-white buildings set one on top of the other. To John’s right, the buildings stretched away to a massive tower, part of the wall that protected the city; to his left, they ran uphill to a thick-walled citadel.
‘Saxon!’ someone barked, and John turned to see the hulking, thickly bearded figure of Ernaut stomping towards him. Ernaut smirked when he saw the trail of yellow-brown vomit on John’s white surcoat. ‘Stop your puking and get your arse over here. Lord Reynald wants to speak to us.’
John followed Ernaut to the foredeck, where the other men had gathered in their chainmail and surcoats, white with red crusader’s crosses on the chest. Ernaut disappeared into the rear cabin and returned a moment later with Reynald. Reynald de Chatillon was a handsome, well-proportioned man of twenty-three. He had sharp features, closely cropped hair and a well-groomed, short black beard. He smiled at them, revealing even, white teeth.
‘My men,’ he began, ‘it has been nearly a year since we left our homes for the Holy Land. Now at last, by the grace of God, we have arrived, and our holy work can begin.’ Several of the men sniggered. Reynald had drunk and whored his way through every village between Worms and Attalia. Reynald’s eyes narrowed and his smile faded. The sniggering stopped immediately.
‘You may be wondering why we have not sailed to Antioch with King Louis and the others,’ Reynald continued. ‘Our king has entrusted me with an important mission at the court of Baldwin, King of Jerusalem.’ As he was speaking, three of the ship’s sailors leapt the short distance to the dockside, grabbed ropes and began to pull the boat tight against the quay. ‘As emissaries of King Louis, we must be on our best behaviour.’ Reynald’s voice was hard-edged. ‘I will go ashore to announce our presence to King Baldwin. You are to wait at the docks until we are told where to camp. I want no trouble. That means no women and no wine.’ The men groaned. Reynald’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, and the men quieted. Reynald was a deadly swordsman. He nodded, satisfied. ‘You will wait here,’ he repeated and marched off down the gangway the sailors had set up, followed by two sergeants, Thomas and Bertran.
‘You heard Lord Reynald!’ Ernaut bellowed at the men. ‘There’s to be no trouble. Now get below and grab your gear.’
John followed the other men below decks. The dank hold was lit only dimly by a shaft of light shining through the hatch above. The huge warhorses whose stalls took up most of the space nickered and stamped, thinking that they were going to be fed. John kept his distance. It was not the size of the chargers that set them apart from other horses, so much as their temperament. It had been John’s task during the voyage to muck out their stalls, and he had been bitten, stepped on or kicked more than once.
John headed away from the stalls to the cramped space where the knights had slept, their thin blankets laid out almost on top of one another. John grabbed the leather rucksack containing his helmet, spare tunic, simple tent, woollen blanket and prayer book. He already wore his most valuable possessions: leather boots and breeches; chainmail armour that hung to his knees; a tattered cloak; a tall, kite-shaped shield
slung over his back; a waterskin dangling from his shoulder; and hanging from his belt, his father’s sword and a pouch containing a few coppers and his wetting stone.
John climbed from the hold with his rucksack slung over his shoulder and marched down the gangway. Several other men were kneeling on the ground and kissing the soil. John joined them, crossing himself and offering up a prayer to the Virgin for his safe arrival. It seemed like a lifetime since he had fled England with only the armour on his back and a sword at his side. He had joined the crusade in Worms and marched through the great cities of Salonika, Constantinople and Ephesus. Now, at last, he was in Outremer, the Holy Land. He rose and breathed deeply. The usual smells of a port – salty sea air and freshly caught fish – were overlaid with more pungent odours from the nearby market: heavily perfumed women, roasting meats, yeasty bread and burning incense. Joining the other men, John took his helmet from his rucksack and sat on it. The late-morning sun beat down, and he wiped sweat from his brow as he gazed at the market. Only a few feet away, two olive-skinned Saracens in white burnouses – loose-fitting cloaks with broad sleeves – were selling swords and knives. John had never seen anything like the blades, with their polished steel surfaces covered in interlacing patterns in darker grey.
‘What are they doing here?’ said one of the knights, pointing at the two Saracens. He was a loudmouth named Aalot, nicknamed One Eye. He claimed that he had lost his eye fighting the English in Normandy, but John had heard that a vengeful prostitute was to blame. ‘I thought we came to fight those sand-devils, and here they are setting up shop in a Christian city.’
‘Let it be, One Eye,’ Ernaut ordered. ‘We’re not to make any trouble.’
One Eye spread his hands in protest. ‘I’m not making trouble.’ He turned to Rabbit, the youngest of the men at only thirteen. His real name was Oudin, but the men had dubbed him Rabbit, as much for the way his nose twitched when he was nervous as for his large ears, which were completely out of proportion to his skinny, freckled face. ‘I hear the Saracens eat their captives,’ One Eye said. ‘They cut their hearts out while they’re still alive and eat them raw.’
