by K. M. Ashman
Gradually, as the sun settled near the horizon, the dock started to empty, and Hassan was about to give up when a noise from the ship made him pause. He looked up and saw a man staring down at him from the prow of the ship, a formidable bearded warrior clad in a black surcoat emblazed with a red cross. The man looked around the empty dock and as Hassan watched, another led a horse down to the quay before tying it to a hitching rail near a storehouse. Another five warriors, each dressed the same as the first followed him down accompanied by three young boys leading pack mules piled high with equipment.
For a few moments, Hassan stared, almost forgetting the reason he was there but finally he plucked up the courage and walked along the dock to speak to them. One of the squires turned towards him as he approached.
‘Stay back,’ said the squire as he neared, ‘my masters have no need of your wares.’
‘You waste your time,’ said another squire to his comrade, ‘he probably doesn’t understand you.’
‘You,’ shouted the first boy again, ‘be gone.’ He pointed along the wharf, indicating what he wanted Hassan to do. ‘Quickly now, before you get a beating.’
‘There will be no beating today,’ said one of the men in black. ‘Show humility, master Tobias, the boy is probably hungry.’
The squire bit his tongue but stepped back from the strange boy. Master Cronin was one of the Templar sergeants and as such, his word was law to all the squires who served them and the knights alike.
Cronin was an experienced fighter and had worked his way up the ranks in King Henry’s army back in England before electing to join the Templars. As he was not born of noble stock, he could never assume the white mantle as worn by the senior knights, but this didn’t mean he was any less part of the sacred order. His surcoat was black and emblazoned with the same red cross, and during battle his role, along with his fellow sergeants, was to form a unit of light cavalry, following up any Templars’ main charge to fight alongside them in any close quarter fighting. Unlike the main knights who favoured fuller beards, Cronin kept his facial hair short and neatly trimmed. His strong build evidenced an upbringing of hard graft on his family’s farm while his weathered face displayed a military confidence born of many years fighting for his king.
As the squires turned away, to everyone’s surprise, Hassan spoke up, addressing them in perfect English.
‘My lords,’ he said nervously, ‘I neither beg for alms nor seek to sell you any wares. My sole purpose is to greet you as a fellow Christian and to offer refreshment after your arduous journey.’ He lifted the tray of figs for them to see. ‘Freshly picked today by my own hands.’
Everyone stared in astonishment. Hassan was dressed in a white linen thawb and his skin was the colour of horse chestnuts. His jet-black hair and facial features clearly indicated he was native to the Holy Land, yet he spoke English as clear as any man they knew.
‘My name is Hassan Malouf,’ he continued nervously. ‘Please, eat your fill. I also have a flask of the sweetest water for you to quench your thirst.’
‘You speak very good English, Hassan,’ said Cronin stepping forward and taking a fig from the tray. ‘Who is it that taught you our language?’
‘My lord,’ interjected one of the squires before Hassan could reply, ‘wait. The fruit may be poisoned.’
Cronin looked down at the fig and back up at Hassan, staring deep into the boy’s eyes.
‘Is the fruit good, Hassan?’ he asked quietly.
‘My lord, it is from the best fig tree in Acre. If you wish, I will eat it myself.’
Cronin paused before popping it into his own mouth and chewing quietly. All the time his eyes not leaving those of the Bedouin boy.
‘Delicious,’ he said finally. ‘Thank you. You said you have fresh water?’
‘I do,’ said the boy, ‘drawn this very day from the cleanest well in Acre.’
‘Then bring it to me, Hassan, for the water on the ship is warm and foul of taste.’
Hassan placed the tray of figs on an upturned crate and ran back to the shadows before returning with a large goatskin of water. He handed Cronin a leather cup and loosened the drawstring around the neck of the water skin before filling the cup to the brim.
‘Would you like me to taste it for you, my lord,’ he asked, seeing the sergeant’s momentary pause.
‘Do you need to?’ asked Cronin.
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then, in that case, I will trust you again.’ He lifted the cup and drained it in one go, leaving his head tilted back as he savoured the freshness of clean water for the first time in weeks.
‘Well?’ asked one of the other sergeants, ‘does he speak truly?’
‘Aye he does,’ said Cronin. ‘The water is as pure as an angel’s tears.’
The rest of the men walked over to share the fruit and the water and chatted quietly as they waited for their masters to appear.
‘So,’ said Cronin eventually, ‘do you have an answer to my question?’
‘Your question, my lord?’ asked Hassan.
‘Aye. How is it that you speak our language? Are you not a Saracen?’
‘Nay, my lord,’ said the boy, ‘my father was a Bedouin and my family made the deserts their home. Until I was ten years old, we traded amongst the pilgrims but alas we were set upon by a Mamluk raiding party and my father was killed. I would have shared his fate, but my mother hid me amongst the rocks and held me down, so I did not run to his aid. When they were gone, we sought others of our tribe, but she had been wounded in the attack and died in the night. I buried them both with my bare hands and wandered for days but I had no horse and no water so surely would have perished had not Father Clement found me on the road and brought me to Acre. Here he taught me in the ways of our lord Jesus Christ and had me baptized as a Christian. It was he who taught me your language.’
‘And you speak it very well,’ said Cronin. ‘So, was it this Father Clement who sent these gifts you bear?’
‘No, my lord. The gifts are mine. I hope they are to your liking.’
‘They are,’ said Cronin, ‘but we must pay you. What is the cost?’
‘I will accept no coin, my lord,’ said Hassan, ‘for I only wish to serve.’
‘Serve?’ asked one of the other sergeants, ‘in what manner?’
‘I have seen many men such as you pass this way,’ said Hassan, ‘and have learned that your squires are not noble born but hired. Every night I pray to God that one day I will be blessed with such a position.’
‘You wish to be a squire?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I seek no such elevated title, my lord,’ said Hassan, ‘only to serve you on your travels and prove my allegiance.’
‘He could be a spy,’ said one of the squires looking the Bedouin boy up and down with suspicion. ‘Send him away.’
‘Hassan,’ said Cronin, ‘to be a squire is more than just preparing food and drink. There are weapons to maintain, horses to look after and clothing to clean. The life is hard and often dangerous. Many ride to war with their masters and some die on the field of battle. We are honoured by your request but alas, we cannot offer you a position.’
‘My lord,’ said Hassan, ‘My background is lowly and my culture, Bedouin. However, God has shown me in a dream that my fate is to serve the men of the red cross and I will seek out that path until the day I die. When you lie down your head this very night, I will sleep beneath the walls of the castle and wait in case you call.’
‘Hassan,’ said Cronin, ‘your pledge pays you merit but we have everything we need so I bid you go about your life as best you can. Now, you should be gone for our masters’ approach.’
The sergeant turned away and Hassan looked up at the ship as the men he wanted to serve more than anything in life appeared on the deck, and though he had known what to expect, his mouth opened in awe at the majestic sight.
Three warriors, each clad in a mantle of pure white emblazoned with a blood-red cross, led their chargers slowly d
own the gangplank to join the sergeants. To Hassan, they were giants, huge men whose stature was enhanced by the gambesons and heavy hauberks they each wore beneath their cloaks. Fierce looking swords hung from their belts, and coifs of chain mail were pulled back from their heads to rest heavy upon their shoulders.
The horses were no less impressive, magnificent destriers draped with heavy white caparisons, also emblazoned with the red cross. Bedrolls lay strapped to the saddles along with huge, kite-shaped shields, spiked maces, and the full-faced helmets each knight would wear if they should ride into battle.
The sergeants fell quiet as the knights approached across the dock.
‘Brother Cronin,’ said one as he approached, ‘I trust we are ready to move.’
‘We are, my lord,’ said Cronin. ‘I have made arrangements with the Captain to have the rest of the horses brought to the castle in the morning along with the lances and equipment chests. In the meantime, we have everything we need.’
‘Good,’ said the knight, ‘then let us be away. I am keen to see us within the walls before dark.’
Cronin nodded and turned to the rest of the men.
‘Mount up,’ he said, ‘and follow me.’
Hassan saw an opportunity and walked out of the shadows.
‘My lord,’ he called, ‘if you are going to the castle, allow me to show you the way.’
‘I can find my own way, boy,’ said Cronin, climbing up onto his horse, ‘the castle walls dominate the skyline.’
‘Aye, but the alleyways are full of cutthroats and beggars not fit to set eyes upon men such as you. Let me show you an easier road.’
Before the sergeant could reply Hassan turned and ran fifty paces along the dock to stand at the entrance of a side street.
‘This way, my lord,’ he shouted pointing up the narrow alleyway, ‘it is the best road in Acre.’
‘It seems you have found a disciple there,’ said the second sergeant riding up to join Cronin, ‘and yet we have been in Acre less than an hour.’
‘He seems harmless enough,’ said Cronin, ‘come on, let’s get moving.’ He spurred his horse to follow Hassan along the dock and as the sun set, they headed from the harbour and up through the backstreets to the imposing castle above.
----
Chapter Three
Acre Castle
October 12th
AD 1177
At the city walls, the newly arrived Templars approached the gate tower, watched in silence by the beggars of the street as they passed. Two pike bearers guarded the approach and despite the knight’s impressive appearance, eyed them with a half-hidden air of disdain.
‘I see the latest monks have arrived,’ said one quietly, ‘it looks like we can all now safely sleep in our beds.’
‘Thank heavens for that,’ said the second guard, recognising the sarcasm, ‘all those nasty barbarians out there have been giving me nightmares, so we are fortunate we have someone to chase the bad men away.’
Cronin and the rest of the sergeants ignored the jibe and kept riding under the imposing arch into the castle. Behind them came the three Templars followed by the squires.
‘You be careful now,’ said one of the guards quietly as they passed, ‘we wouldn’t want to get those nice white cloaks dirty now, would we?’
Their laughter faded away as the last of the knights reined in his horse and turned to face them. The guard swallowed hard as he realised his jibe had been overheard. To insult a knight of any order was punishable by flogging and he cursed silently at his mistake.
‘My lord,’ stammered the second guard, ‘we meant no offence. Please pardon our impertinence.’
The knight rode his horse slowly back along the paved roadway until he was level with the first soldier. For a moment he paused before slowly and methodically removing his gauntlets.
‘My lord,’ gasped the guard, knowing that the knight was well within his rights to demand redress, ‘please, I am just a humble soldier and know no better. My mouth speaks before I know it and I can only beg forgiveness.’
The knight stared in silence for a moment before reaching out his hand to offer the gauntlets to the guard.
‘Take these,’ he said, ‘I see yours are threadbare.’
The guard looked up at the imposing knight in shock. He had been expecting a beating but instead, was being offered a gift.
‘My lord,’ he stuttered, ‘I do not understand.’
‘Take them,’ said the knight, ‘you have the greater need.’
‘But I bore you insult. Why would you reward me so?’
‘Your words bear me no pain, my friend,’ said the knight, ‘but the nights can get cold and I would not see you suffer.’
The guard lifted his hand nervously and took the gauntlets from the Templar knight, half expecting it to be a trick but when no sudden blow was forthcoming, he looked up again, his face lined with gratitude and astonishment.
‘Go with the lord,’ said the knight before the guard could speak and turned his horse away to follow the sergeants into the castle.
As the squires followed them in, the guard with the new gauntlets reached out and grabbed one of the bridles.
‘Boy,’ he said, ‘who was that man?’
‘That was Jakelin de Mailly,’ said the squire, ‘and a finer knight never stepped foot in the Holy Land.’
‘But why did he give me the gauntlets?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the boy, ‘but perhaps it is true what they say.’
‘And what is that?’
‘That the Templars truly are selected by God himself.’ Without another word he urged his horse forward and followed his masters into the city of Acre.
----
Hassan led the newcomers along the narrow streets, finally stopping outside an archway into a courtyard.
‘You will find your comrades in the far hall,’ said Hassan pointing across to a building. ‘I am not allowed to go any further.’
‘You have been a great help, Hassan,’ said Cronin, ‘but I have no coin with which to make payment.’
‘To be of service is payment enough,’ said Hassan. He pointed to a dark doorway in a building opposite the archway. ‘That is the house of Milam the trader. I work for him in the markets and he allows me to sleep in the corner of his cellar. If there is anything you need, please send for me.’
‘Thank you, Hassan,’ said Cronin and led the column of riders under the archway into the cobblestoned courtyard.
At the far end, everyone dismounted, and the three Templar knights walked over to an imposing oak door set into thick stone walls. One stepped forward and drawing his knife from his belt, knocked the door hard three times with the hilt.
A few moments later, they heard a bolt being slid back and a servant peered out into the gloom. He looked up at the three knights and after mumbling a greeting, stepped aside, inviting them to enter.
The noise from within was subdued considering the number of men present but as the first knight stepped over the threshold, the conversation died away completely, leaving the hall in silence.
The room held three lines of trestle tables and on each side sat a mixture of men wearing either the white or black surcoats of the Templar order over thin linen undershirts. At the far end, one arose from his seat and strode down between the tables to greet the newcomers.
‘Sir Richard of Kent, I presume?’ said the imposing man as he approached. ‘You are here at last.’
‘My Lord Amand,’ said the first knight, dropping to one knee as he recognised the Grand Master of his order, ‘it is my honour to be here.’
‘Please, get to your feet,’ said the Grand Master, ‘we are all brothers here. My sincere apologies for not greeting you at the harbour, I was told your ship was berthing on the morrow.’
‘That was the plan,’ said Richard, ‘but we took advantage of a delay amongst those ships still anchored outside the harbour walls and instructed the Captain to seek moorings. I hope you are not inconvenienced.�
��
‘Not at all,’ said Amand. ‘Are your companions with you?’
‘Indeed they are,’ said Richard, ‘and wait with the horses outside.’
‘My lord,’ said one of the sergeants getting to his feet at a nearby table, ‘Allow me to arrange the stabling while our comrades are introduced.’
Amand nodded and the sergeant left the hall as the Grand Master turned back to address the other two knights at Richard’s side.
‘If the despatches I received from England are correct, then you must be Jakelin de Mailly and Benedict of York. Welcome to the Holy Land.’
Both men bowed slightly in acknowledgement as the other knights in the hall slapped their hands on the tables in welcome.
‘Please,’ said Amand, as the noise abated, ‘divest yourselves of your cloaks and armour and find a seat amongst your brethren. Our fayre is simple but adequate. Once you have eaten we will find quarters for you and your men and on the morrow, brief you on the current situation.’
The door behind them opened as Cronin and his fellow sergeants filed in to join their masters, and as the hall erupted into the welcoming banging of tables once more, they knew they were at last amongst those who made up the heart of their holy order.
The newest arrival of Templar knights and their entourage had arrived.
----
Chapter Four
The Citadel of Jerusalem
October 28th
AD 1177
William of Tyre walked along the candlelit corridor toward the king’s chambers, his feet echoing in the gloom. The armed guards paid him little heed, aware that this journey was carried out every night without fail.
Outside the night was dark and cold, but the flickering light from dozens of watchfires sent dancing shadows onto the stone walls of the castle as the guards along the parapets struggled to keep warm in the chilly easterly wind.
He walked up to the open doors and paused as the waiting servant turned to announce his arrival.
