by H A CULLEY
When he woke up, feeling sick and with a head that felt as if a building had fallen on top of it, he gradually became conscious that he was lying in one of the supply wagons. He cautiously raised his head then fell back again feeling faint.
‘Ah, you’re back in the land of the living then.’
Tristan opened his eyes to see Warin’s round face looking down at him. Slowly he raised himself into a sitting position, holding his head as it felt as if it was about to fall off. Warin was riding beside the wagon leading Tristan’s rouncey as well as his own packhorse. Next to him the boy who he had given half his scarf to was grinning at him and leading Tristan’s packhorse as well as his own.
‘What happened?’ he asked, somewhat groggily.
‘You’re a bloody hero, that’s what happened.’
‘Really? How come?’
‘Your charge into the Saracens saved the day, giving the vanguard time to organise a counter-attack. Only a handful of the raiders managed to escape and all the wagons were saved.’
‘The last thing I remember is killing a man with my axe and then it all went blank.’
Warin held up his badly dented helmet. The blow had broken one segment at the back away from the cross bracing and the nose guard was bent. Tristan immediately felt his nose and was relieved to find it was still there, if rather swollen and bloody.
The other squire laughed. ‘No, it’s still there but it does look a bit like a squashed tomato. The nose guard must have smashed it when your helmet took the blow from a Saracen sword. You’ve got a very nasty cut on the back of your head but you must have a really thick skull. That blow would have killed most people. Oh, I’m Simon de Chalons by the way, second squire to the Count of Champagne.’
~#~
The castle at Latrun, built by the Templars and abandoned in 1189, had been partly demolished by Saladin. When King Richard arrived there he set about repairing it as his forward base. As soon as the army arrived he sent Henry of Champagne off to Acre to collect more reinforcements. Tristan was sorry to see Simon go with his master. He and the boy had become good friends and part of Tristan’s recovery was due to Simon’s ministration. The barber-surgeons were overworked and most had only a rudimentary knowledge of medicine in any case. Simon kept Tristan’s wound clean by bathing it daily and then bandaged it with fresh cloths. By the time he left Latrun Tristan’s head was all but healed and he felt strong enough to walk short distances by himself.
Warin had played his part by squiring for Lord Richard as well as Sir Miles. He called in to see Tristan from time to time and found that his friend was far less inclined to be arrogant now. The other change was to his appearance. The squashed nose had recovered but it had been broken in two places and would be forever crooked. Tristan’s hair showed no signs of growing back over the scar where the Saracen sword had cut down to his skull and it looked as if he would have a permanent bald patch there.
Tristan was sanguine about it. Like most of the crusaders he had cut his hair short because of the heat when he arrived in Cyprus.
‘I’ll just have to grow my hair long again so that it covers it.’ He shrugged to show it didn’t matter; but it did.
Two days later Richard de Cuille came to see him accompanied by Miles and Warin. ‘Do you feel fit enough to ride a short distance?’
‘I’ll try not to fall of my horse, my lord.’ Tristan smiled. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Up to the castle. The king wants to see you. He probably wants to take you to task for losing him twenty five squires in that mad charge of yours.’ Richard smiled to show that he was teasing but Tristan was immediately alarmed.
‘Twenty five? Is that how many died? God pity me, I was a fool.’
‘Don’t be absurd boy. You saved the day and twenty five lives was a small price to pay for that. Do you know how many Saracen bodies we counted?’
Tristan shook his head glumly.
‘Over seven hundred; nearly ninety serjeants and men-at-arms died before you came to their aid. The rest would have been killed too if it wasn’t for you. As it was, seventy survived.’
This cheered his squire up somewhat, but he was still fearful about seeing the king. When they arrived at the castle Tristan got off his horse and had to hold onto the stirrup leather for a minute as he felt groggy. Shaking his head to clear it he followed Lord Richard and Sir Miles into the great hall with Warin by his side in case he needed support.
The king was standing talking to the Earl of Leicester, Count Henry of Champagne and the Grand Masters of the Templars and the Hospitallers when they arrived, so they stood waiting by the door. When the king noticed them he broke off what he was saying and muttered something to the other three before walking across to the newcomers with a beaming smile on his face. At this time, Richard the Lionheart was thirty four and in his prime. Like many nobles he wore a beard, though this was cropped quite short, as was his hair. His mere presence made everyone stand straighter and feel proud to serve him.
The great hall was a sorry example of its type. The walls still needed repairing in places and the roof had several holes in it. The keep at Latrun was built for defence, rather than for show, and so the hall was quite small. There was no fireplace, just two empty braziers for use in the winter, and a single rough-hewn table with four chairs. The king took Tristan by the arm and walked him over to the table where he gestured him to sit. The king sat opposite him, leaving the rest standing. Tristan felt uncomfortable sitting when his master was on his feet, but he could hardly suggest that Lord Richard should also be invited to sit.
‘I gather that you are still recovering from your wound, my boy, so I hope I haven’t dragged you from your sickbed?’
‘No sire, I am nearly my old self again, thank you,’ he stuttered, wondering if his pale face gave the lie to his statement.
‘That’s not what I hear, but I’m sure you will be in another week or two. I wanted to see you to tell you personally how grateful I am for your prompt action in saving the vanguard’s baggage train. It also showed great leadership in one so young and I am most impressed with you.’
If Tristan’s face had been pale and wan a moment ago it was now bright red with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. ‘Thank you, sire. Anyone would have done the same, I’m sure.’
‘Well I’m not. Seizing the initiative as you did is quite rare I assure you, even amongst my most experienced commanders.’ The king paused and regarded the young man sitting in front of him. ‘How old are you?’
‘I have just turned seventeen, sire.’
‘Um, you are still very young but I was leading an army by your age. Stand up.’
Slightly bewildered Tristan stood, thankful that his feeling of faintness seemed to have gone. The king stood and held out his hand to the Earl of Leicester who handed him a glove. The king slapped Tristan across the face with it and the youth was so surprised that he nearly stumbled.
‘Congratulations, Sir Tristan. Let that blow be a reminder to you of your knightly vows.’ The king hesitated. ‘You do know them, don’t you?’
‘What, of course. Oh, I mean yes, sire.’ He could hardly believe what had just happened.
The king and the others burst out laughing. ‘Of course you do.’ He turned to Lord Richard ‘I fear you will need to find two new squires now, de Cuille. One for you and one for this young man.’
Richard stepped forward and clasped his nephew by the shoulders. ‘Well done, lad. I am proud of you, and so will your father be when I tell him.’ He turned to Miles who handed him a sword belt. ‘This sword and a courser are my gifts to you as your sponsor. I will also see you kitted out with chain mail, and I think you might need a new helmet.’
~#~
Saladin sat in council with his brother Safadin, his eldest son, Malik el Afdal and his third son, Malik ez Zaher Uthman. They sat round an ornate table in the throne room of the royal palace in Jerusalem. The pillars that supported the roof were of polished rose marble, as was the floor. The st
one walls were covered in tapestries woven with intricate patterns and excerpts from the Koran. A greater contrast between this opulent room and the crumbling great hall at Latrun would be difficult to imagine.
‘Al Malik Ric is camped not fifteen miles from here and, although his army is smaller than last year, it is still larger than the forces I am able to muster.’ Saladin had used the Arabic name for the Lionheart and referred to the desertion of many of his troops, who were disillusioned by the crusaders’ successes.
‘Should we abandon Jerusalem for the moment and then return to recapture it later?’ El Afdal suggested. ‘Al Malik Ric and many of our enemies have come here from their own lands. They cannot stay here for ever.’
‘No, we cannot think of giving up the Holy City to the infidels, not even for a day.’ Uthman was appalled at his elder brother’s suggestion.
Safadin coughed politely. ‘Whilst I agree that it would be disastrous to our cause, and perhaps fatal to my brother’s reputation, if we were to defend the city and then let it be taken, I think that there are other ways to defeat our enemies.’
‘Go on brother,’ Saladin encouraged him.
‘Well, we need to consider our enemy’s weak points. He is dependent on supplies from the coast and obtaining water locally. So we concentrate our efforts, not on the defence of Jerusalem, but on attacking his supply caravans and poisoning all the wells between here and Beit Nuba. That way he will have to retreat again to the coast.’
‘But if we poison the wells the local people won’t be able to survive either,’ Uthman objected.
Safadin shrugged. ‘This is war; we all have to make sacrifices.’
Saladin held up his hand to indicate that he had heard enough and he now wanted peace and quiet to think. The sultan was now fifty four and beginning to feel his age. His greatest desire was to negotiate an honourable peace, but Jerusalem was non-negotiable. His brother’s proposals would force Richard and his army back to the coast and save the Holy City. Uprooting and moving a thousand Bedouin was a small price to pay for that.
‘What my brother says makes sense. Uthman, you will take charge of moving the Bedouin who live south of the city and resettling them to the north. Use whatever force you need to. I don’t suppose that the tribes who live there now will welcome new neighbours but explain that it is only temporary.’
Saladin turned to his eldest son. ‘You will take charge of poisoning the wells. Make sure that there is no source of water anywhere to the south, east and west of the city for a distance of ten miles. And include the well at Beit Nuba.’
~#~
Richard de Cuille found that there was a shortage of squires, not helped by the twenty five killed during Tristan’s charge to defend the baggage train. For the moment Warin continued to look after him as well as Miles but Tristan had to look after himself. Now that May and perpetual sunshine had arrived at least his chain mail and helmet didn’t keep getting rusty. But it was demeaning to have to look after his horses with the other squires now he was a knight. He had to keep reminding himself that Warin would think that he was being arrogant again if he objected, but it hurt his pride to know that his former companions sniggered behind his back. Truth to tell, most of them were jealous. Not only was he a knight four years before the normal age, but he had been given the accolade by the king himself.
Tristan had joined Miles’ conroi, which was part of his uncle’s bataille. He found that most of the knights ignored him and he began to feel rather lonely. Miles was aware of the problem but he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
‘It’s only to be expected,’ Richard de Cuille told him. ‘He has been favoured by the king and that will make many of them jealous. On top of that he is a raw and untried knight who has only been a squire for three years. They are naturally wary of him and will be until he proves himself in battle.’
‘I would have thought that he had already done that,’ Miles commented sourly.
‘Yes, that’s true, but not as a knight and not as part of your conroi.’ Richard paused, considering what he was about to say. Miles might be offended by his advice but he gave it anyway. ‘Don’t be tempted to show him any favour; that will only make matters worse. Your knights are hard men and he must earn his place amongst them without any help from us.’
‘Yes, I realise that. I’m not a fool,’ retorted Miles stiffly.
A week later King Richard decided to ride forward to Beit Nuba, a mere twelve miles from Jerusalem, where there was another ruined Templar castle. He took with him as escort a detachment of Templars and Hospitallers, Lord Richard’s bataille and a conroi of Turcopoles. This time the Hospitallers formed the van and the Templars the rear guard. The Turcopoles fanned out as advance scouts and on the flanks.
As they neared the village a Turcopole came galloping back to tell the king that a hundred Saracens were approaching from the north east with three wagons. This was strange as camels were usually employed by Saladin’s army to carry the baggage and supplies. Richard rode forward taking de Cuille and Miles’ conroi with him as escort. They cantered past the Hospitallers who halted in consternation as the king overtook them and soon came to a low rise from where they could see the village on a hill surmounted by the ruined crusader castle across the valley.
The Saracens had halted by one of the three wells below the hill and were unloading putrefying animal carcasses from the wagons.
‘By God, they’re about to poison the well’. Richard sent a squire back to bring on the Hospitallers and told the rest to follow him. The Lionheart, without waiting to don his helmet or for his squire to hand him his lance, pulled his sword from its scabbard, swung his shield into position from where it hung on his back and charged down the hill.
Tristan was the first knight to react; digging his spurs into his courser, he followed his king in a headlong gallop down the hill. The rest of the conroi and ten Turcopole scouts followed suit seconds later. They were outnumbered three to one but the Saracens were dismounted and most were watering their horses and filling their own water skins before the wells were poisoned.
The king swung his sword, loping the head off a Saracen who was scrambling to get out of his way then disaster struck. A spearman stood his ground and thrust the point deep into the chest of Richard’s destrier before the king could pull his horse to one side. It collapsed onto its knees and Richard went sailing over its head to land face down in the dirt badly winded in the middle of a group of Saracens. The only knight close enough was Tristan and he didn’t hesitate. Pulling his courser onto its hind legs so that its iron shod front hooves flailed at the Saracens. It caught one on the head, killing him instantly. Swinging his sword, he desperately drove them away from the king until he felt a blinding pain in his side. But by then other knights were around him, hacking at the Saracens until they fled. Tristan clutched at his side feeling faint and then toppled off his horse.
Once more he woke up looking up at the concerned face of Warin. As soon as he saw that Tristan was conscious, the squire called out and soon Richard de Cuille, Miles and several knights from his conroi clustered around him, peering down at him. Then they moved aside and he found himself looking up at the bearded face of the Lionheart.
‘I suspect I owe you my life, my boy,’ the king began. You have a nasty cut in your side but luckily it seems to have missed all your vital organs. One of the Turcopoles claims to be a physician and has dug all the bits of chain mail and clothing out of the wound, washed it and sewed it up, so I suspect he knows what he is doing. I have decided to make this place our forward base and so that will save you a jolting ride back to Latrun in the back of one of the carts we captured.’
As the cart still stank of the rotting carcasses Tristan was doubly grateful for this.
‘I have decided that, as this is the second time that you have rendered me exceptional service, I need to reward you in some way,’ the king went on, brushing aside Tristan’s attempt to say that this wasn’t necessary. ‘I have a ward who is a heires
s to a large manor near Lowestoft who I have been seeking a suitable husband for. She is a pretty little thing, only thirteen at the moment but she will be old enough to bed by the time we get back to England, no doubt.’
Tristan didn’t know what to say. A few weeks ago he was a squire whose only contact with women had been family members and whores. Now it appeared that he was to be betrothed to a girl four years younger than he was, a mere child really, who he had never met. He could hardly refuse the king, especially as he obviously thought he was doing Tristan a great favour. And owning a wealthy manor in Suffolk did have its attractions. Although he was Richard de Cuille’s heir to the barony of the Cheviot, Richard could live for another twenty years or more.
He muttered the conventional words of thanks whilst his mind tried to adjust to the idea of marriage; something he had not even thought about. Then the king left and the others drifted away leaving Warin and a Turcopole he didn’t know. Warin introduced him as the physician who had been tending to him.
‘You should be fine provided you keep the wound clean and change the dressing twice a day. Get your squire to do it.’ Before Tristan could thank him the man got on his horse and cantered away.
‘I was going to say that I haven’t got a squire,’ Tristan muttered to no-one in particular, then winced as a stab of pain lanced into his side.
‘I would stay and tend to you, Sir Tristan but Sir Miles is being sent out on patrol. I’ll come and see you when I get back.’ Warin left him reluctantly, hoping he would be alright.
At least Tristan had been moved to the shade of a date palm so he wasn’t under the direct rays of the midday sun. The men that the king had led to Beit Nuba hadn’t brought tents with them and no-one had even thought to give him a drink of water, so Tristan was left alone, literally dying for a drink.
