The Saracen

by Tony Roberts

  Right now the Court was in the middle of yet another, this one over the issue of the four-year truce with their neighbors. This was being voiced in an extremely disapproving manner by the Grand Master of the Temple, one Gerard de Ridfort, a tall, broad, hard-faced man of Flemish origin. His piercing blue eyes were at this moment fixed opposite his place in the court room, upon the figure of Raymond III of Tripoli, a man whom he despised utterly and the man he saw as dangerous to his ambitions for greater power in Outremer.

  “You, sir, have betrayed the will of Christ by daring to sign a truce with the forces of the Antichrist. You are unfit, I say, to be regent of these lands!”

  A wave of outrage rose from the Court. All places were taken in the stone walled and floored chamber, with the seat reserved for the king remaining empty. As a child Baldwin could hardly have been expected to attend, and besides he was too ill to come anyway.

  “Hold your tongue, Ridfort!” Balian d’Ibelin retorted angrily, pointing an accusing finger at the red-faced Grand Master. “You would not agree with Raymond no matter what he does, so your opinion is not that of a rational man!” Balian was a highly intelligent man, dark of complexion, beautifully proportioned, strong, lithe and in the peak of health. He disliked the stupid quarrelling and longed for them all to join forces. Only then could they hope to successfully oppose the Muslims.

  “I’m not rational?” Ridfort exclaimed, his voice a shriek. “But negotiating with God’s enemies is?”

  “We all agreed on this truce, Gerard,” Raymond’s tired voice cut through the growls of agreement and dissent throughout the chamber, subduing the voices for a moment. “Only Reynauld of course refused to sign it,” Raymond glanced over at the glowering bearded figure of de Chatillon, “but of course he would never agree to negotiate with Salah-ed-Din no matter what. But,” he said loudly as a buzz of noise rose, “this meeting is not about that truce, which is not in dispute. What we are gathered here is to ensure that we all keep it, including those who did not sign the truce!” He glared at the now smiling Reynauld, then back at Ridfort who was looking as though he wanted to argue.

  “We are in no position to go to war” Joscelin cut in. The portly seneschal of the Kingdom sat sweating in the heat, something he always did, hating the atmosphere within the chamber. “Our stocks of food are low, our armies are too few and scattered. We need the king to reach adulthood which was why we need that four-year truce. You know that, Gerard.”

  Ridfort sneered and sat down, glaring at Raymond. The regent sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair and looked to his left. Sat there was Guy de Lusignan, his face turning to watch each speaker in turn, and reflecting the emotion of the speaker. Oh by the sweet blood of Jesus, Raymond thought, this fool has no mind of his own. Who ever proposed this moron as regent? He chewed on his lip and looked at the Grand Master of the Hospital, Roger of les Moulins. Perhaps he could calm the angry Ridfort? “Roger, perhaps you could explain that an oath taken is something to be kept? Especially one sworn to God in the presence of a king?”

  Roger nodded and stood, turning to Ridfort. “If you are truly one who follows your word you must not challenge the truce; you swore it to the dying king, and now you must adhere to it, my friend.”

  Ridfort went to retort angrily, then pursed his lips and curtly nodded. He looked once again at Raymond. “But mark my words, Raymond of Tripoli, once this truce expires I shall never again be tricked into agreeing anything you propose.”

  Reynauld guffawed. “And if the truce is broken prior to that?”

  All eyes turned to the smiling Lord of Kerak. “Lord Reynauld, you are not proposing to start a war!” Raymond bellowed, fearful the bastard would do just that.

  “Me?” Reynauld looked shocked, his eyes wide in utterly feigned surprise, “now why would I do such a terrible thing?” There were laughs from a few, including Guy, sitting just a few feet from Raymond.

  “Remember, Guy de Lusignan,” Raymond hissed, “you lost your position as regent originally because of your foolish behavior; be careful you do not fall into the same trap again with that fool!”

  Guy looked up at Raymond in surprise. “No, of course not,” he said quickly, too quickly. Raymond kept Guy’s stare for a moment before nodding in apparent satisfaction. He thumped a fist heavily on the rail in front of him, attracting everyone’s attention. “Then I can be assured by this Court that no one, no one, will break this truce?”

  There were rumbles of agreement all round the chamber, and Raymond stared directly at the grinning figure of Reynauld. De Chatillon shrugged and nodded but Raymond knew the stupid pig had no intention of being sincere. The realization made his chest tighten.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The town of Beteras wasn’t much to look at but to the weary travelers it was welcome enough. In the gloom of twilight the mud brick houses seemed depressingly similar as they silently filed past. The town was quiet save for one place, and that was where Casca led them, for it was the inn.

  The inn was a beacon of light in the darkness, drawing them towards it like moths to a candle. Casca nodded and dismounted, studying the faded sign above the door, depicting a knight with a lance spearing a mythical beast. The George, it said. Casca smiled briefly. George had been a Greek soldier and somehow a myth about him slaying a dragon had arisen. Casca knew it to be rubbish but people talked and exaggerated and before long it was accepted as fact.

  The only dragons Casca had come across were some particularly hideous old women he’d been unfortunate to cross in his lifetime every so often. Maybe that was what the legend was about, a Greek soldier “spearing” an old battleaxe. He chuckled to himself and then turned to face the other three. “This is the only place we can stay in town. Its likely to be noisy but it’ll do.”

  Guillaume nodded; he’d stayed in many such places and it held no fear to him. Casca was beginning to like the guy; he seemed a reliable type, no nonsense, efficient. He certainly looked as though he knew how to take care of himself. Eleanor shuddered and pressed close to her father, obviously unwilling to subject herself to such a place, but de Beaucaire squeezed her shoulder and urged her to accompany him inside. A filthy emaciated Arabic stable boy appeared, dressed in rags, and Guillaume handed the four reins to the boy together with a coin so the horses could be stabled.

  Casca pushed open the door and was assaulted by a wave of noise. Light hit his face and he quickly scanned the large room. A group of soldiers were occupying two tables to the left, alternating between some discussion he couldn’t hear. Probably, Casca mused, concerning the merits of spreading the thighs of wenches – and singing loudly a song which was hardly saintly. Eleanor would be shocked if she caught the words, he thought. To the right an assortment of roughs were scattered amongst the tables and chairs, Arabs, Europeans and a few Nubians, or so Casca thought. The usual eclectic rabble these places collect. Ahead, through the labyrinth of chairs and beams that held up the sagging ceiling, stood the bar and behind it the innkeeper and serving wenches. Casca flexed his shoulders and began pushing his way through towards the bar.

  Faces turned to study the newcomers and most recognized a tough guy and quickly looked beyond to the slender frame of Eleanor. The young woman was clearly a different type than they were used to; the serving wenches in the room were typical of their social circle, rough, basic and common. But Eleanor represented something new and appealing, and she was young. Eyes roved over her body, many mentally screwing her, faces contorted into leers. Casca barged one particularly unsubtle man over, the chair crashing to the ground along with the helpless man, much to the amusement of the soldiers. The man leaped up, face dark with fury, and Casca thrust his scarred face into his. “Want to make anything of it, cochon?”

  The man, missing most of his teeth already, clearly decided he wanted to retain those he had left, so he shook his head and backed off, allowing the other three to pass. He did leer again however, so Guillaume shoved him roughly and the man fell face forward into one of
the tables occupied by some down and outs, once more causing the soldiers to guffaw. The two nondescript men who had had their drinks knocked flying, stood up angrily and stared balefully at Guillaume who stared back at them defiantly. Casca turned and also stared at the two men. The two, deciding that Guillaume and Casca were a little out of their class, picked up the moaning gap-toothed unfortunate and proceeded to beat him for knocking their drinks over. Gap-tooth, obviously having had his night of gratuitous leering ruined, decided to leave as fast as possible, twisting out of the two furious men’s grasp and fled.

  He left and shook his fist at the establishment and turned to make his way home and face an evening with his fat wife and squalling brats. He stopped abruptly as he bumped into another man, one dressed in a dark cloak and hood. All he could make out from his obscured face was a large nose.

  “Four people,” the cloaked man said, his voice low and gravelly. “Three men, one woman. They inside?”

  “What if they are?” Gap-tooth replied truculently. He wasn’t in the mood to be pleasant and one short man was less of a problem than two tough warrior types. Or so he thought. The next moment a long razor-edged knife was at his throat and he pressed back against the tavern wall, the blade resting against his throat.

  “I won’t ask you again, filth!”

  “Y-Yes!” Gap-tooth stammered fearfully, his legs weakening. “They arrived a moment or so ago!”

  “Ah, thank you,” Jarret said absently, and pulled the man round the corner to an alleyway where he slit his throat and left the unfortunate to die, his life blood draining. Jarret wiped the blade and put it away, returning to a position across the street where he could watch the inn and make plans.

  Inside, Casca had made arrangements for two rooms next to one another. De Beaucaire and Eleanor would share one room while Casca and Guillaume the other. Casca was still not satisfied they had arrived without someone following them, and he suggested Guillaume and he share watch in the corridor outside throughout the night.

  De Beaucaire protested but with Guillaume adding his voice to Casca’s, he gave in and they found a spare chair in one of the rooms for the guard to sit in outside his and Eleanor’s room. Casca purchased a flagon of poor quality ale, a little thin and watery to his taste but it was better than nothing, and arranged for him to take the first watch of two hours.

  He sat back, looking left and right along the corridor. It wasn’t long, with only two other doors in the mud and wooden walls, and the staircase descended down at the far end of the right-hand side. The corridor ended in a wall to the left beyond De Beaucaire’s room so it was safe enough. Torches flickered from wall brackets along the corridor which gave off enough light to see by, and the noise of the tavern downstairs clearly came to him. Opposite the doors were a couple of windows and he peered out of one. The night air was heavy and still and stars glittered in the sky, twinkling in the same manner they had done for millennia.

  Casca sighed and sat back down, taking a draught of the unappealing ale. He smacked the bung back into the neck and rested his head against the wall, thinking deeply. Almost unbidden into his thoughts came the picture of smoke, flames, fleeing people; he could hear sounds of screaming, crashing doors as they were kicked in, horses whinnying in fear. No matter how much he tried to dismiss the scene from his mind he knew it wouldn’t budge. Often at night as he slept these nightmarish scenes invaded his sub-consciousness; a millennium of fighting had imprinted itself in his mind and he knew he could not shift it.

  He knew what he was seeing - the last time he’d seen Jerusalem at the end of the Crusade. Knights from Europe had battered their way in and so began the senseless slaughter of the people. Not just Muslims, but Jews and Christians too. So much for the love of God they professed to follow. Death was all that followed them and he’d wanted no more of it, so he’d left the dying city and struck out east.

  Now he was back within touching distance, and he wondered if he really wanted to go there. It was the beginning of his immortality, where he’d thrust the spear into Jesus’ side on Golgotha, and it seemed that whenever he had returned something terrible happened. The Brotherhood of the Lamb had been there, forcing him to bend to their will, but he’d returned with the Arabs on their jihad when they’d first exploded out of the Arabian Desert and conquered the city.

  Now what?

  The door to his left opened, startling him. It didn’t come open with the usual speed of someone coming out normally, rather the hesitant silence of someone wishing to creep out. He sat upright and waited, and the figure that emerged was unmistakably that of Eleanor, clutching her night dress about her. Her hair was loose and down her back, something Casca noted with pleasure. He judged she was about fifteen and not yet fully matured in body, but she was one heck of a girl already. No wonder Reynauld had had the hots for her.

  She saw Casca and put a finger to her lips and came up to him. He went to stand but she stopped him with a gesture from her hand. He remained there looking at her while she studied him a moment. Then she began speaking in a low hardly audible voice. “I want to thank you, Rufus, for saving us after we came from the castle. I have not spoken to you properly, have I?”

  Casca grinned and shrugged. “I was just lucky to be there at the time,” he replied softly. “But why wait until now? We have had plenty of times to speak.”

  Eleanor hesitated. “I was still in shock from what happened,” she said slowly. “I-I don’t know why… maybe I do… please do not take offense but you are something of a frightening figure.”

  Casca smiled and shrugged. He supposed he was, his size was intimidating to some, and his scarred face could put the shivers into people. He was used to that. “Perhaps.”

  “Yet… there is something about you that makes me trust you. Can you understand that?”

  “I will take your word for that, my lady. I am but a humble soldier serving the best I can. I am no nobleman, versed in court manners and etiquette.”

  Eleanor tossed her head impatiently. “Oh, don’t talk to me about court manners! Reynauld is supposed to be a nobleman but he has the manners of a pig.” She stopped and clutched herself at the memory of Reynauld tying her up and pulling her naked legs apart. “I see beyond the rank of a man and instead judge what is beneath. You are a good man, Rufus, I can see that. Yes, a man used to killing, but you don’t delight in it, unlike many I have seen!”

  Casca remained silent. What could he say? Then, incredibly, Eleanor leaned forward, kissed him on the lips, then straightened and returned quietly to her room. He remained sat in the chair, his mind whirling, then he grinned widely and picked up the flagon. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad ale after all.

  ____

  Guillaume relieved him on time and Casca went to bed, still thinking of the kiss. He mentally set his mind to wake in two hours and shut his eyes. This time, instead of blood, fire and screams, his mind was full of long-haired women with amazing figures.

  He woke with a start. Something had cut through his sleep. He reached for his sword, hanging from the end of the bed, and he padded softly to the door. He could hear nothing. Opening the door quietly, he peered out. A figure was lying on the floor outside the open door of the de Beaucaires. His mouth turned down and he made his way to the prone figure. Guillaume, bleeding from a head wound in the back of his head. He’d been knocked out without seeing who had done it.

  He stepped over the heavily breathing man and looked into the room, his sword ready. The window was open and a rope was hanging from the bed nearest it through the opening. Another figure was lying in one of the beds, while the other was empty. Cursing, he moved quickly to the bed and examined the figure of de Beaucaire. He had been stabbed in the chest and was bleeding badly, but still alive. Eleanor however was gone. He leaned out of the window and looked out. The rope ended in an alleyway beneath the window and he could hear the sound of a horse galloping off away from the inn, heading towards the east and the way they had come.

  He thumped th
e sill in fury; some bastard was taking Eleanor back to Kerak.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Two men galloped east through the hills into the rising sun; two grim-faced men with fear in their hearts and anger etched on their faces. Casca and Guillaume, armed to the teeth and ready to hack their way through any bastard who deserved it in order to rescue the girl.

  Casca had revived Guillaume by throwing the remnants of the ale over him and then had tended de Beaucaire, staunching the blood as best he could. The wound was deep but thankfully clean, which spoke of a sharp weapon used once and expertly. The only puzzle was how the heart had been missed; de Beaucaire had received a stab through the chest but not near the heart.

  The innkeeper had been roused and he’d arranged for two women to nurse the wounded man and get a doctor to see to him. De Beaucaire was unconscious and Guillaume, once he’d got his wits back from the blow, had initially insisted on staying with his master. However the doctor, a Syrian Muslim, had waved the warrior off and told him in no uncertain terms that he’d be better elsewhere and leave the task of curing to those who knew what they were talking about. Guillaume had then vowed to come with Casca to rescue Eleanor once de Beaucaire had been safely transported to the doctor’s house, a neat house on the outskirts of town that contained a walled garden. The doctor said patients who sat in the garden often recovered much faster.

  Casca had paid the doctor with what coins he had and asked that the identity of his patient be kept secret because he feared the agents of the man who wished him dead may return, and the doctor agreed.

  So now the two men were riding into the rising sun, descending the hills onto the plains that ran east of Outremer. “How much lead has he got?” Guillaume shouted, urging his steed on.

  “Five hours, give or take. He’ll be slow; he’s got two on his horse and Eleanor won’t co-operate. She knows what’s in store for her once she gets to that castle.”