Crusade

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ Salim said, comforted. He hobbled off to the well as fast as he could.

  By the time the sun was over the horizon, the troop had led out their horses, rolled their belongings into neat packs and tied them behind the horses’ saddles. To Salim’s relief, the medicine chest had been roped on to one of the packhorses, along with the captain’s tent and the cooking vessels. The doctor, calling on heaven for pity, had been thrown up into the saddle of the quietest horse the captain could provide, while Salim was thrilled to see that Ismail was bringing up for him the same high-stepping, long-maned mare he’d ridden yesterday.

  ‘So you want to ride like a Mamluk, do you, little brother?’ Ismail said, smiling, but his mockery was without a sting. He stood back to let Salim scramble unaided into the saddle, then adjusted the left stirrup so that it fitted his shorter leg more comfortably.

  ‘Just watch us,’ he said complacently. ‘You might learn something. No more sacks of wheat today, huh?’

  Salim didn’t answer. In spite of his stiffness, he was already back in his dream of glory. As the troop filed down from the night’s campsite, the horses picking their way along the stony path towards the plain below, he was, in his own eyes, a fearsome Mamluk. Instead of the little brown skullcap on his head, he wore a plumed helmet wrapped round with a silken turban, and instead of his old dun-coloured hooded robe, he was clad in a scarlet studded brigandine over a coat of the finest mail. He watched every movement of Ismail, who was riding directly in front of him, noticing carefully how he rose and fell with each movement of the horse, how straight his back was, and how easily he balanced the long lance in his hand.

  They stopped, before the sun had reached its full height, by a spring set in a grove of trees beside a broad, flat, dry river bed. They were no more than two miles from the walls of Acre and the tents of the Crusaders.

  Salim dismounted, reluctant to be earthbound and on his own feet again. Dr Musa, grumbling noisily, had already gone off to harangue the captain. Salim could make out no more than a few words.

  ‘Outrageous . . . a pretext . . . Jerusalem . . . man of peace . . . be on our way . . .’

  Captain Arslan was listening impassively, and answered in a few words. Salim couldn’t hear what he said, but he saw Dr Musa turn round, raising his arms to heaven in exasperated resignation. Salim couldn’t help smiling. They’d be staying with the Mamluks, then. The adventure would go on.

  Food was produced and eaten. The horses were watered and led to rest in the shade. The men sat about quietly, huddled over a complicated game. The doctor, having removed the dressing, looked at Salim’s toe, pronounced that it was healing and needed no further treatment, then retired to a quiet spot and lay down to doze.

  As the shadows began to lengthen, there was a sudden stir.

  ‘Are we staying here tonight? Are we moving on again?’ Salim asked the doctor.

  ‘You think I’m a mind-reader?’ the doctor answered crossly. ‘If you wish to inform yourself on military movements, enquire of the captain. I’m just a useless old man, without even enough sense to achieve a perfectly simple journey from Acre to Jerusalem without being kidnapped. Taken hostage!’

  He was still shaking his head as Salim slipped away.

  ‘Are we going on somewhere else now?’ he dared to ask Ismail, who was saddling up his horse and leading it out from under the trees.

  ‘No, no!’ Ismail grinned, showing his strong white teeth. ‘It’s Mamluk training time. Now you’ll see something you won’t forget!’

  Only six of the soldiers, the younger ones, on foot but leading their horses, had followed Ismail out on to the dry river bed, where there was a broad stretch of smooth dry sand. Captain Arslan, mounted, had ridden after them. He halted his horse in a commanding position above them on the bank and shouted out an order. Salim followed and stood behind him, trying not to be seen as he watched.

  One soldier, gripping his lance tightly, walked some way from his horse, then, having stood on tiptoe for a moment, measuring the distance through narrowed eyes, he balanced his lance on his right shoulder, sprinted forwards, planted the tip of the lance into the ground and pole-vaulted himself up into the air, landing smoothly astride the saddle of his horse. He raised the lance in a victory salute, while his horse pranced beneath him, sending the tassels of his bridle flying. A cheer of nervous congratulation went up from the other five soldiers. Salim, stunned by this feat, crept forward till he was at the very edge of the bank, as near as he could get. He saw that Ismail was clutching his lance in nervous hands, biting his lip with anxiety.

  The captain shouted again. A second soldier ran forward, but lost his nerve at the last moment and dropped his lance, which fell against the horse’s rump, making it bolt up the river bed in fright, its master in pursuit.

  Salim watched, his heart in his mouth, as one after another, the soldiers attempted the manoeuvre. The older ones had come out to the bank to judge the young ones’ efforts and were chatting among themselves, laughing at the failures and shouting encouragement when any of them succeeded. At last it was Ismail’s turn. Salim tensed, willing him to do well, and watched with helpless sympathy as again and again he failed, placing his lance tip wrongly, taking off too soon, or startling the horse so that it moved away at the last moment, while Captain Arslan’s shouted instructions grew more impatient.

  Salim heard a disapproving cough and turned to see the doctor standing behind him.

  ‘Dangerous folly,’ he was muttering. ‘Sheer bravado. If the Lord had wished us to fly . . .’

  Ismail was trying again. His lance gripped in a ferociously clenched fist, he ran forward and gathered himself for the leap, tilting his lance down to the ground as he neared his horse. But once again he had misjudged the distance. Propelled by the lance, he flew up into the air, but instead of landing on his horse’s saddle, he came down with a thump on the animal’s rump. The horse reared up, hiding Ismail from Salim’s view. Salim’s blood ran cold as he heard a terrible scream. The horse trotted away. Salim could see Ismail now. He was lying on the ground, impaled through the shoulder by his lance. Blood was spreading out across the sand in a thick dark pool.

  Salim stood still, frozen with horror. A groan broke from the doctor.

  ‘Suicidal! What foolishness!’

  Captain Arslan had heard him. He frowned haughtily down at the doctor.

  ‘Folly? You call the arts of manhood folly? It was his job to learn and to succeed. He is a Mamluk. It’s your job, old man, to heal him.’

  He wheeled his horse and trotted back to the trees, though his hand on the bridle was trembling.

  Salim was already running across to where Ismail lay, surrounded by a ring of shocked, silent soldiers. He wormed his way through them and caught his breath at the sight of Ismail’s face. It was deathly pale, and his eyes were closed.

  He’s dying, Salim thought. He can’t live.

  The doctor arrived, out of breath from running.

  ‘Fetch the chest,’ he panted to Salim. ‘No, wait.’ He pointed to a soldier. ‘You’ll do it faster. You, boy, get me olives.’

  Salim stared, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

  ‘Olives?’

  ‘Are you deaf? Olives. And fire. Hot embers on a tray. Don’t stand there. Run! A man’s life depends on it.’

  It seemed to Salim, frantically rushing about the camp under the trees, that he was taking forever to fulfil the doctor’s commands. Luckily the servants had already lit a fire and were able to produce a jar of olives quickly from their stores. No more than a few minutes had passed before he was back by the huddled group on the river bed, holding out the olives and the tray of hot embers to the doctor, who was rummaging in the open medicine chest. The entire troop had gathered round, and even the captain, feigning a stoical indifference, was hovering nearby.

  ‘Stand back!’ Dr Musa called out irritably. ‘Captain Arslan, take everyone away. No – leave two men here. Salim, the olives. Pick out half a
dozen of different sizes and put them on the embers. They must be hot. Scalding! Quick!’

  With trembling fingers, Salim was fishing olives out of the jar and dropping them on the glowing embers.

  The doctor had cut through Ismail’s red brigandine, now stained dark with blood. He was arranging on a cloth tongs, swabs and a scalpel. Salim could see that the lance was embedded inches deep just under Ismail’s collarbone. It was sticking up vertically, as high as a man.

  ‘Hold him down, boy. If he comes round, he mustn’t move. He must be quite still and steady,’ the doctor said.

  Salim put his arm over Ismail’s chest and lay across him, oblivious of the blood staining his own tunic. The doctor grasped the lance, and with one swift movement, wrenched it out and flung it away. The grating sound it made as it slid over Ismail’s collarbone made Salim shudder and his stomach heaved.

  Dr Musa had dropped to his knees and was looking into the wound. Blood gushed out.

  ‘As I thought. A major vein. The olives. Hold them out.’

  Salim sat back and held out the tray. It was so hot that it was burning his fingers, but he ignored the pain. The doctor chose an olive, picked it up with the tongs and thrust it into the wound. It sizzled as it touched the wet blood. He held it in place with his right hand, while with his left he lifted Ismail’s limp arm to feel his pulse.

  ‘Is he going to die?’ Salim couldn’t help asking.

  The doctor didn’t answer.

  ‘Water!’ he said, looking up at last. ‘Quick!’

  One of the two soldiers was sprinting away before Salim had time to move. He came back seconds later with a brimming flagon in his arms.

  ‘Swabs,’ the doctor barked at Salim. ‘Wet them. Wash the blood away. I can’t see what I’m doing with all this mess.’

  Gently, Salim dabbed at Ismail’s gore-covered skin, ineffectually at first, then with increasing boldness.

  ‘Good. Enough,’ the doctor said at last.

  It was clear that the bleeding had stopped. The doctor sighed with satisfaction.

  ‘An old method, tried and trusted,’ he said. ‘There’s a cut artery in there. Leave it, and the patient will quickly bleed to death.’

  ‘Is there magic in olives then?’ Salim asked reverently. He was squatting as close to Ismail as he could, watching the doctor’s every move.

  ‘Magic? Pah!’ scoffed the doctor. With infinite care he had eased the olive up and out of the wound, and was now picking out threads from the torn brigandine caught in the flesh. ‘It’s a clean thing, an olive, and the oil in it makes it keep its heat. It’s the heat that works to seal the blood vessel.’

  ‘Can we move him into the shade now, doctor?’ one of the soldiers asked respectfully.

  ‘Move him? No! You want to start the bleeding again? Make a shade over him. Bring something to put under his head. A sheet too, to keep the flies off the wound. He stays here for the next few hours till I can be sure the bleeding has stopped.’

  ‘Will you bandage the wound now?’ Salim asked.

  ‘And trap infection inside? No. The humours will have been unbalanced. Black bile may need to come out. In the meantime, we’ll wait and see.’

  ‘Are you sure . . . isn’t he dead already?’ Salim whispered in a quavering voice. ‘He’s so pale!’

  ‘Look at his chest, boy! It’s rising and falling with his breath. A fine young man. Strong. A fool, but brave. If there is no fever, and infection doesn’t take hold, he may pull through.’

  Salim, anxiously watching Ismail’s deathly pale face, thought he saw the eyeballs flicker beneath the heavy lids, and then was sure of it, as a moment later Ismail’s eyes fluttered open and a moan escaped his lips.

  ‘Allahu akbar!’ Salim whispered fervently. ‘He’s alive!’

  The next two days were spent in anxious watching beside the makeshift pallet bed on which Ismail lay, under an awning set up between two trees. Dr Musa showed Salim how to check his pulse and examine his urine.

  ‘And don’t think, my boy, that you’ll be any kind of expert soon. Years of study under the finest doctors in Baghdad I went through, and a correct diagnosis is still hard to make.’

  He allowed Salim to bathe the wound daily and apply healing poultices. For the rest, he said, a light diet of chicken soup, fresh vegetables and plenty of eggs, milk and sugar water were needed, and the result would be according to the divine will.

  ‘Lucky for you we’re not on the march,’ Captain Arslan grumbled, but he gave the necessary orders and sent his men out to acquire what was needed from nearby farms.

  There was a different feeling among the troop now. Before the accident the men, though polite, had treated Dr Musa with indifference, and had ignored Salim. But the doctor’s astonishing skill in saving Ismail’s life had impressed them all deeply. They addressed him with awed respect and willingly performed any small service he asked for. Some of this new attitude rubbed off on to Salim too. He was losing his shyness and held his head high as he limped about the camp, fetching things for the doctor, or returning to squat beside Ismail and fan him with a bunch of fig leaves.

  ‘It’s not so bad being a doctor after all, then?’ Dr Musa asked him shrewdly on the third afternoon, after Ismail, sitting up for the first time, had drunk an entire bowl full of chicken soup and asked for more. ‘I don’t seem to remember that you were very pleased with the idea at first. Wanted to be a knight, I suppose, and stick lances into other poor young men.’

  Salim shook his head, but he felt confused inside. He did still want to be a knight, of course, but the doctor was right. The craft of medicine had power, the power over life and death. It won respect too. He knew in his heart that he would never be a knight, never ride gloriously into battle on a noble warhorse, plumes streaming out from behind his helmet. But he could – he would – become a doctor, and one day he’d see in men’s eyes the admiration he’d seen in the Mamluks’ when Dr Musa had saved Ismail’s life.

  He was watching with interest as Dr Musa ground together the ingredients to make a salve for Ismail’s wound when a soldier, sent out to scout by Captain Arslan, came pounding into the camp on his sweating horse.

  ‘The Franks have attacked Acre!’ he panted.

  Salim gasped with fright. He barely heard the man go on to say, ‘They were beaten off. The city stands firm.’ He only knew that all was well by the smiles on the faces around him, and his own face split open in a grin of joy.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Dr Musa said, rubbing his hands. ‘The crisis is over. No problem. We can resume our journey to Jerusalem, and—’

  ‘The Franks have retreated?’ the captain interrupted, frowning at the messenger.

  ‘No. They’re preparing for a siege. And more Frankish ships are arriving all the time.’

  ‘Frankish ships? From where?’

  ‘From further up the coast. From Tyre.’

  The captain spat scornfully.

  ‘Not much to fear from them. Saladin, peace be upon him, has already beaten them in battle. They’re old enemies. We know them. When Saladin arrives he’ll sweep them into the sea. No, it’s not them I fear.’

  ‘Then who? Who?’ the doctor burst out.

  The captain was rubbing his cheek.

  ‘Richard of England, Philip of France and the Emperor of Germany. You must have heard. The Crusaders are assembling fresh armies. They’re on their way now, to Palestine, and when they arrive . . .’

  ‘On their way? Assembling armies?’ the doctor said impatiently. ‘It will take them years to get here!’

  ‘A year. Maybe two,’ said the captain. ‘But the siege of Acre may well last that long. And when they come—’

  ‘I’ll be in Jerusalem, may the Lord’s name be praised,’ the doctor said fervently.

  ‘No no, doctor.’ The captain smiled apologetically. ‘You’ll be with Saladin’s army, as he commanded. We’re leaving tomorrow to meet him.’

  The first two weeks of the great journey to the Holy Land wer
e the hardest Adam had ever known. The thrill of leaving the valley and venturing into lands unknown lasted no more than a day. By the end of a week he was swaying on his feet with exhaustion, the leather of his shoes had worn through, and his feet were sore and bleeding.

  He had the fine weather to thank for his problems. The huge Fortis cavalcade, with more than two hundred people and many more horses, would set off every morning just after dawn. It could only move at the pace of the baggage wagons, and as these were heavy and went slowly, and were often held up by tricky streams to ford, or broken wheels, or rough, steep hillsides, it was impossible to cover more than fifteen miles a day.

  For Adam, used to walking long distances, fifteen miles would have been nothing, but he was obliged to keep up with Lord Guy, Lord Robert and the ten knights, who trotted ahead on their smart palfreys. With their passion for hunting, the slightest sign of game would have them calling for the dog boy and the dogs, and Adam would have to run after the horses, covering many more miles at a furious pace, returning at last to the monastery or castle where the Crusader band had halted for the night, only to have to spend hours preparing the dogs’ food and checking them over for injuries. Whenever he was offered food, he wolfed it down, and as soon as his duties were over he lay down where he happened to be and sank at once into a profound sleep.

  Fortunately, when he was nearly at the end of his strength, the weather broke. Instead of scrambling through endless forests, diving in and out of streams and trampling down the crops of scowling villagers in pursuit of a hare or a wild boar, the gentry rode silently under the dripping trees, their horses splashed to their bellies with mud, worrying about rust attacking their suits of chainmail and the weapons in the baggage train.

  Adam didn’t mind the rain. He was used to being out in all weathers. He was simply relieved that he could now walk with the rest of the convoy, and stop when they did.