‘I wasn’t going to say I warned you.’ He leaned down to free Mirre’s lead, which was entangled with one of the brachet hounds’, and when he stood upright again his face was set. ‘I was only going to tell you I’d – I’d look after you. You can count on me for anything.’
She laughed bitterly.
‘Look after me? You? Grow up, Adam.’
He bit his lip and flushed.
‘I would. I’d go with you if you ran away.’
She touched his arm.
‘Thanks all the same but I wouldn’t let you. They’d catch you and cut your nose off for being a runaway serf. Anyway, you’ve got to go to Jerusalem to fight for Christ and Our Lady. You took the cross, didn’t you? You made a vow. And you’ve got to save your ma.’
At four o’clock that afternoon, the long snake of a convoy halted, and the camp was set up as usual. The round, high-roofed tents of the lords and knights were pitched in a circle, with the de Martel banners fluttering from their crests. The animals, from the pack-donkeys and wagon-mules to the palfreys and huge cavalry chargers, were led away to be watered and groomed, the squires busied themselves around their knights, parties were sent out to forage for wood and fodder, men-at-arms were picketed on guard duty, fires were lit, sore feet inspected and supplies of food brought out.
Adam, busy removing a thorn from Ostine’s front paw, looked up to see Lord Guy standing in front of him. He scrambled to his feet and stood with his head respectfully bowed.
‘Lame? Have you let Ostine go lame?’ Lord Guy said testily, bending down to pull at the greyhound’s ears.
Adam cleared his throat nervously.
‘No, my lord. It’s just a small thorn. I’ve got it out now.’
Behind Lord Guy he could see Lord Robert and a couple of knights who were unwillingly following the baron on his evening tour of inspection.
‘What’s this?’ Lord Guy was frowning down at Faithful, who, in spite of Adam’s restraining hand, was growling, his hackles raised.
‘My mastiff, my lord. Master Tappe gave him to me.’
Lord Robert had muscled his way forward.
‘Your mastiff? Since when did a serf own his master’s dog? What right did Tappe have to make free with it?’
Lord Guy, ignoring him, was staring down at Faithful.
‘By Powerful, I suppose. A good guard dog. Tappe was right to send him with you. Teach him to know my scent.’ He took a scarf off his neck and threw it at Adam. ‘I may need him later.’
He walked on, carving a majestic path between his cringing serfs.
Adam, seething, watched them go. Jennet was by one of the wagons, helping old Joan lift out a heavy bag of flour. He saw Lord Robert leer at her and say something to the knight next to him. The other man laughed uneasily. His smile looked forced, and the look he gave Lord Robert was full of disdain.
They know what he’s like. They don’t think much of him either, Adam thought with satisfaction.
As the sun was setting on the following day, the Fortis convoy came at last within sight of Marseilles. Beyond it, hanging like a blue curtain from the sky, the Mediterranean sea stretched into infinity. Its waters, unlike the cold grey of the English Channel, were a deep, sparkling blue.
It wasn’t Marseilles, however, which made Adam gasp, but the vast camp outside the city walls. Thousands of tents, tens of thousands of men and hundreds of thousands of horses were crammed on to a few acres of land. Even from this distance it was possible to pick out the grand, colourful pavilions of the Kings of France and England, surrounded by small tented towns containing their vassals, soldiers and servants.
The sight of so many strangers in one place made the Fortis people nervous. They bunched closer together as they streamed down the road towards the camp.
The stench, a foul miasma of human and animal waste, hit Adam’s nostrils when the camp was still half a mile away. The noise came next, an overwhelming cacophony of shouts, barking dogs, the clash of metal, smiths’ hammers and the braying of donkeys.
‘Stick by me, Jenny,’ he said, taking a firmer grip on the dogs’ leads. It’ll be easy to get lost. People will take advantage if they don’t know who you are.’
The nobles on their horses halted when they were still some way from the camp, and there was a flurry of activity as the knights ordered their equipment to be dragged out from the wagons. They were clearly determined to look their best, fastening on their coats of mail and covering them with their white surcoats emblazoned with crosses. Helmets were donned, their crests flowing in the breeze. Even the horses were being smartened up. Gaudy caparisons were thrown over them and plumes were attached to their heads. The de Martel banner floated from the point of every knight’s lance, so that, held upright, they made a little forest of bright flags. The hundred or so foot soldiers, barked at by their sergeant-at-arms, were rummaging in their packs for showy buckles and buffing up their round-rimmed basin-like helmets with their sleeves.
‘Got to show ’em, haven’t we?’ Adam heard one of the grooms say, as he rubbed at the flank of Vigor, Lord Guy’s gigantic warhorse, to make his black coat shine. ‘De Martel’s as good as any of ’em. Better.’
Lord Guy had sent a knight ahead and he now came trotting back with a middle-aged official, who was dressed in a gown and cloth headdress. A younger civilian rode at his side.
Adam had let the dogs loose to run about while the column had halted. They’d dashed off towards Lord Guy, hoping for the titbits he often gave them, and he was bending down to pet Mirre when the official arrived. Adam, hovering nearby to take control of the dogs again, heard the official say, ‘The de Martel contingent, I presume? Good journey? Excellent. His grace the King is expecting you.’
Lord Guy stepped forward.
‘Guy de Martel at your service,’ he said, bowing with a pompous flourish and making his chainmail rattle.
‘William Scriveson,’ the official said, running a harassed eye over the de Martel people.
‘We come at the King’s command,’ Lord Guy was beginning, standing with his feet apart, clearly about to embark on a formal speech. ‘Our finest knights, bowmen and infantry have answered the call, ready to—’
‘Yes, yes,’ William Scriveson said hastily. ‘How many in your group?’
‘Ten knights,’ Lord Guy said, and Adam could see that he was put out at being interrupted. ‘Twenty experienced bowmen, eighty or so men-at-arms, and others who have pledged to fight and die for—’
‘The total number, please. A round figure will do.’
‘Two hundred, more or less,’ Lord Guy said huffily. ‘You are very hasty, sir.’
William Scriveson waved an apologetic hand.
‘Forgive me, Lord – Guy, is it? The business of organizing our forces – there’s a crisis to be resolved ten times a day. The King has been out of the camp today and is expected back at any moment. I must be at his pavilion when he arrives.’ He turned to the younger man behind him. ‘Two hundred from Martel of Fortis, including ten knights. You have that down, Richard?’
The younger man had pulled an inkhorn and quill from his satchel and was writing, resting the parchment on the pommel of his saddle.
‘Yes, Master William,’ he said.
‘Richard will show you where the English camp is,’ Scriveson went on. ‘It’s appallingly crowded, I warn you. There are several thousands of us already and more arriving every day. You’ll have to find places for yourselves as best you can. The Germans and Flemings have hogged the best spots, and as for the Burgundians . . .’ He broke off as Mirre, approaching his horse, took exception to the flicking of its tail and began to bark. Adam ran forward, leashed Mirre and began to round up Ostine and the lymers, thankful that he had left Faithful tied to a wagon.
‘Hounds, Lord Guy?’ Master Scriveson was saying disapprovingly. ‘Dogs are forbidden, or didn’t you know? The King and the bishops are very firm on the point. We’re engaged on a holy mission, not a glorified hunting expedition.’
Lord Guy had flushed a deep red at the schoolmasterly tone of the other man’s voice.
‘I hunt where I choose,’ he said grandly. ‘My dogs travel with me.’
‘Oh, take it up with the King, if you must,’ Master Scriveson said wearily. ‘Show them the way to the English camp, Richard. I must be off at once.’ As he turned his horse, Adam heard him say, ‘These rural barons from God knows where – very touchy. Try to keep him sweet.’
Adam had just managed to leash the last lymer when a stinging whiplash across his face sent him reeling backwards, half stunned.
‘Dolt! Scum!’ Lord Guy was shouting. ‘Showing me up before the King’s marshal! Did I tell you to let the dogs loose?’ Another cracking blow from the whip toppled Adam to his knees. Keep them close from now on, do you hear? Now get out of my sight. Out of the way! Why am I surrounded by such idiots?’
The welts the whip had made on Adam’s face were showing up as scarlet slashes when he went back to the wagons to fetch Faithful, who jumped up at him with ecstatic barks of welcome. He had hoped for sympathy from Jennet, but she was too busy helping Joan climb into a wagon that was already lumbering off.
As the de Martel convoy entered the great Crusader camp, Adam forgot the pain of the whip marks on his face and looked round eagerly, astonished by the sights and sounds.
The tents, wagons, tethered horses and sheer mass of people were so tightly packed that it was hard to force a way through them. Everyone seemed to be shouting; there was loud laughter and louder arguments. Metal clattered, canvas flapped in the breeze and somewhere in the distance a drum was beating.
The Fortis people could only pass in single file, taking care not to trip up on the guy ropes of the thousands of tents, and several times Adam was afraid he’d lose them and be wandering forever in this vast crowd, trying to find them again. Then he would catch sight of the black hammer on its white background fluttering from the upright lances of the knights leading the way. It stood out boldly from the mass of other bright escutcheons that were painted on shields, floated from tents and were held aloft on a forest of lances.
There was a commotion nearby and a group of knights in foreign-looking gear cut across the convoy at a reckless gallop, beating people out of their way with the flats of their swords.
‘Damned Frisians!’ he heard a foot soldier mutter angrily. ‘Treating us like riff-raff.’
‘Make way! Make way!’ someone shouted, pushing Adam aside. Everyone stood by respectfully as a troop of knights all dressed in white surcoats with red crosses emblazoned on them trotted by.
‘Who do they think they are?’ the same foot soldier called out. ‘Going round like they own the place!’
‘Shut up, fool,’ the man beside him said. ‘Don’t you know anything? They’re the Knights Templar. They’re the best.’
Adam could see, as they progressed, that this was not one camp, but many. There were different groups, strange languages, odd kinds of armour and weapons.
‘Germans here,’ someone would say, as they passed through a camp of blond giants. A little later on it was Flemings, then Burgundians. All had tents for their nobles and knights, all had their long lines of warhorses and palfreys, packmules and donkeys, and all had their poor hangers-on, tattered people with thin faces, but bright crosses worn proudly on their threadbare cloaks.
They’d just passed a makeshift tented church, where priests were intoning a mass within billowing clouds of incense, when Adam heard English voices around him. A space opened up, and one of the knights rode back down the Fortis lines.
‘We make our base here!’ he called out. ‘Bring up the wagons. Captain, keep your men close in the camp. There’s to be no fighting with any other contingent. The grooms will be shown where to water the horses.’
He had barely finished speaking when a drum sounded not far away and a trumpet blared. Everyone turned as a glittering procession of tall men on high-stepping horses, whose glossy backs were covered with scarlet and gold caparisons, rode out from the crowds into the open.
‘Richard! It’s the King! The Lionheart!’ Adam heard the people around him say. Everyone had moved back to let the King’s party pass, and all those on foot fell to their knees.
Lord Guy swept off his helmet and spurred his horse forwards to intercept the leading horse.
‘Your grace! My lord!’ he began, but the rider turned indifferent eyes away from him and rode on.
‘Later, Fortis, later,’ one of the cavalcade called back to him. ‘The King’s grace is not to be interrupted. He’ll receive you tonight in his pavilion. Bring your knights.’
As soon as the King’s procession had clattered on, everyone rose to their feet.
‘Did you see him? That was him, wasn’t it? I didn’t know he was so tall. And did you see his horse?’ they were all eagerly telling each other.
Adam had been too concerned to keep the dogs out of sight to look closely at the King, but for a moment the calculating blue eyes in the fair handsome face had swept over him, and he had sensed something he had never experienced before, a radiant power, a kind of glory that frightened as much as impressed him.
Salim glowed with pride as he trotted with the Mamluk troop towards the camp of Sultan Saladin. It was a bright morning and the sun, rising behind Saladin’s position on the eastern hills, set the white walls of Acre shining against the blue of the sea beyond. In the plain below it was easy now to pick out the details of the Crusader army. It ringed the city on the landward side in a half-moon of tents, wagons, milling horses and men.
‘There aren’t very many of them,’ Salim said cheerfully to Ismail, who was being carried on a litter between two horses.
Ismail didn’t answer. It was only two weeks since his accident with the lance. His eyes were shut and his face pale with pain, but Dr Musa, bumping uncomfortably along on his mare on the far side of the litter, had heard.
‘The sea, boy. Where are your eyes? Look at the sea!’
Salim’s heart sank as he followed Dr Musa’s pointing finger and saw yet another fleet of ships bending into the breeze, approaching the beach to the north of the city where clusters of men were waiting.
‘Reinforcements,’ the doctor said, shaking his head. ‘God forsake them! They’re sowing the wind and shall reap the whirlwind. Where’s your water bottle? Give the poor patient a drink, or do you want him to die of thirst? Don’t choke him! A little at a time now, that’s the way.’
Salim bent across his saddle at a perilous angle and dribbled a little water from his bottle into Ismail’s mouth. As he straightened up, the Mamluk troop reached the top of a low rise and he gasped at the sight of Saladin’s camp stretching ahead.
It seemed at first sight to go on forever. Round tents with pitched roofs were strung like beads along the brow of the hill and between them thronged a mass of people, horses, mules, camels and oxen, tripping over wagons, boxes, bales and sacks of provisions. Bright banners fluttered from the tent poles.
‘Ha! Turcomans here, I see,’ Dr Musa said, as if to himself. ‘Kurds and Turks, of course. Some Syrians – and Bedouin! Any man who can hold the reins of such a mob . . .’
Salim stopped listening. He’d seen the great marquee of Saladin in the centre of the line which was ringed by soldiers.
Captain Arslan, slowing his horse to a steady walk, was advancing through the camp, his men following him. Guards stopped him as he approached the Sultan’s enclosure. He dismounted, exchanged a few words with them in rapid Turkish, then they parted to let him through. One or two of the men tried to follow him.
‘Not you!’ the guards said roughly.
Dr Musa, with a grunt of relief, had scrambled down off his horse and was laying his hand on Ismail’s forehead. Salim dismounted too.
‘Can I get something for him, ustadh?’
‘Some water only for now. Then fetch Suweida and make sure she’s—’
He was cut short by a high voice nearby singing out the call to prayer. The camp sti
lled at once. Prayer mats were unrolled on the rocky ground and set down to face south towards Mecca.
Captain Arslan returned to his troop soon after prayers were over. He looked unusually excited.
‘You’re wanted, doctor,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen Saladin himself, peace be upon him. I told him of your olive trick.’
‘My what?’ The doctor spluttered.
The captain tapped him on the arm by way of an apology.
‘He wants to see you now. In his tent!’
For once the doctor was struck speechless.
‘Yes!’ Captain Arslan was smiling. ‘This is your chance. It’s your reward for your goodness to my man. You’ll be a rich man!’
‘Riches? Pah!’ said the doctor, recovering. ‘Boy! Make yourself presentable. Clean hands and a pure heart. Wash.’
‘Excuse me, sidi Musa, but your turban is knocked a bit sideways,’ Salim said, drying his hands on his tunic.
‘If Sultan Saladin cares one jot about crooked headdresses he’s not the man I take him for,’ the doctor said testily, but he pushed his turban back in place.
Salim’s heart thumped as he followed the doctor past the guards and approached the great pavilion. The sides of it were open, and the interior was so shady that for a moment he could see nothing as his eyes adjusted from the brightness outside.
The tent was comfortably furnished with cushions and rugs while overhead a saffron silk canopy cast a dim yellow glow. A black-robed cleric sat with a Koran open on a little stand, reading from it in a quiet monotone. A bare-footed servant carrying a copper tray moved aside and Salim saw a short, middle-aged man sitting cross-legged against a scarlet-and-gold striped cushion. He knew at once that it was Saladin. He dropped his eyes, not daring to look.
‘You are the doctor?’ Saladin’s voice was husky and he spoke Arabic with a Kurdish accent.
‘Yes, my lord,’ Dr Musa said calmly.
‘Sit down. Sit here beside me.’
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