Templar Steel

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘So, you believed that Saracen when he said we would be imprisoned and not tortured?’

  ‘Ordinarily yes,’ said the scout, ‘but there is a doubt.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘The fact that Saladin is definitely bracing for war against Jerusalem. To do so will involve a huge mobilisation of men and to march into a kingdom as heavily armed as we are, means he needs information and plenty of it.’

  ‘So, our capture would have been a source of that information.’

  ‘Possibly, that and the fact that the Saracen force was by far the largest I have seen this far north since I have been here.’

  ‘Do you think Saladin has already left Egypt?’

  ‘Aye, I do. There can be no other explanation.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Gerald getting to his feet, ‘there is no more time to waste. The king needs to know as soon as possible.’

  ----

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Judean Mountains

  November 13th

  AD 1177

  Hassan’s eyes bulged, and he clawed desperately at the noose around his neck as he was drawn up amongst the branches of the tree. His legs kicked wildly, and his bladder emptied in fear as realised he was about to die. His lungs strained to draw even the slightest amount of air, but it was no use and as he slowly choked to death, his eyes rolled back, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Mehedi reined in the horse and looked over his shoulder, his heart sinking as he watched the boy struggling.

  ‘It is nothing more than he deserves,’ said Mustapha, but before Mehedi could reply, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye and spun around to see Cronin charging from the bushes, sword in hand.

  Immediately he reached for his own blade but was shocked when the sergeant ran straight past to cut through the rope, sending Hassan’s body crashing to the floor.

  With a roar of his own Mustapha drew his scimitar and charged toward Cronin but the impetus was with the Christian and as Mustapha raised his sword, Cronin ducked low to swing his sword up beneath the Bedouin’s chin, carving the front half of his face clean away from his skull.

  The brigand dropped to the floor, his body twitching as he died, and Cronin spun around, knowing there was still a threat to his rear. For a few moments, he and Mehedi faced each other, their eyes locked as they each contemplated their next moves but before the sergeant could resume the attack, the Bedouin pulled on the reins of his horse and raced away from the bloody scene as fast as he could.

  Cronin ran over to Hassan’s body and loosened the knot around the boy’s throat, searching desperately for any sign of life. For a few seconds there was nothing, and it seemed he was too late, but suddenly the boy gasped and drew in a large lungful of air.

  ‘Thank the lord,’ said Cronin and helped the boy up into a sitting position. For the next few moments, he waited as Hassan’s breathing returned to normal before retrieving a water skin from the remaining horse.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘try and drink a little.’

  Hassan sipped at the water before pushing it away and staring at the sergeant.

  ‘You came back,’ he gasped.

  ‘I had to,’ replied Cronin, ‘my conscience allowed no other option.’

  ‘But I betrayed you.’

  ‘You also saved my life and that is the greater debt.’

  ‘I will be your slave for evermore,’ said Hassan.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Cronin, ‘though I would appreciate you answering some questions.’

  ‘It is within my power to provide the answers then that is what I will do.’

  ‘Come,’ said Cronin, ‘first of all let’s get you cleaned up. Wash in the stream while I check the other one is not planning to circle back and attack us unawares.’

  ‘I think he is not as brave as Mustapha,’ said Hassan, ‘and is probably far from here already.’

  ‘I’d rather not take the risk,’ said Cronin pulling the boy to his feet, ‘sort yourself out and we’ll talk in a while.’

  While Hassan washed himself and his soiled clothes in the stream, Cronin mounted his horse and followed Mehedi’s tracks for half a league eastward before satisfying himself the brigand had not circled around to attack them. By the time he got back to the stream, Hassan had lit a small fire and had a pot of water suspended over the flames.

  ‘You have been busy,’ said Cronin, dismounting, ‘what have you there?’

  ‘Oats and dried meat,’ said Hassan, ‘from his food pouch.’ He nodded toward the body of the dead man who was now covered with a blanket.

  ‘He will have to be buried,’ said Cronin and looked toward the pot. ‘How long will that be?’

  ‘A while yet. The meat has to soften.’

  ‘I’ll dig the grave. Call me when it is done.’

  He walked over to Mustapha’s body but without the tools to dig in the sun-hardened sand, resorted to covering the corpse with a pile of rocks. Finally, with the last stone in place, he washed his hands in the stream and returned to the fire.

  ‘The food is done,’ said Hassan and ladled some of the thick stew into a wooden bowl before adding a handful of dried dates from a leather pouch.

  Quietly they both ate until eventually, Cronin took a long drink from a water skin and turned his attention on Hassan.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘we need to talk.’

  ‘I know,’ said Hassan. ‘This is a terrible thing I have caused but will do everything in my power to make it right.’

  ‘First of all,’ said Cronin, ‘I need to know why you did what you did. I thought you were desperate to become a squire. Indeed, I risked a lot by standing up for you yet still you betrayed me. Why was that?’

  ‘The answer is simple,’ said Hassan. ‘When my father was killed by brigands, they took me, my mother and sister prisoner. When I was old enough, they placed me on a road well-travelled by western pilgrims and I was instructed to become a part of Christian life. I was to learn all I could and was told that one day, I would be called upon to relay what I knew back to those who held my family prisoner. A few months ago, I was contacted and told to infiltrate the Christian army.’

  ‘So, your story about wanting to be a squire was untrue?’

  ‘Oh no, my lord, it was and still is my utmost desire. At first, I resisted the Christian ways but soon I fell under God’s spell and when I was baptised by father Clement, it was the happiest day of my life. After that, I became transfixed by the many different orders of knights travelling through Acre and soon knew it was a life I needed to share. In particular, the Templar’s creed was a draw to me and I yearn to wear the blood cross, in any capacity I can.’

  ‘Yet still, you betrayed us?’

  ‘I had no other option. Mustapha said he would slay my family if I did not do as he said. Somehow he found out I was to accompany you to Jerusalem and must have guessed you would be carrying information valuable to Saladin.’

  ‘You said last night that the satchel had been burned. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes. When they saw the jewelled cross, they lost interest in the documents and used them to fuel the fire. Their intention was to sell you to Saladin’s men and sell the cross in the streets of Acre.’

  ‘Where is the cross now?’

  ‘I know not. I searched Mustapha’s body when you were gone but it is not there so must be still in the saddlebags of his horse.’

  ‘Which is the one his friend used to flee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cronin fell silent for a few moments, absorbing everything he had just learned. The fact that the documents had been destroyed was devastating but if he could retrieve the cross, then at least he could partly fulfil his task. However, he could not ignore that Hassan’s family was now at risk of retribution so had to consider every option that lay open to him.

  ‘Hassan,’ he said eventually, ‘do you know where your family is being held?’

  ‘I think so.’

 
; ‘And could this be the place where Mehedi is headed?’

  ‘He rides in the opposite direction, but I believe he will return there if only to hurt my family.’

  ‘Then our course of action is clear. We will ride there with all haste. Hopefully, we will arrive before him and set about securing your family’s release. After that, you will lead them to safety while I seek out Mehedi.’

  ‘Why would you do this for me?’ asked Hassan. ‘Especially after what I did to you?’

  ‘Because,’ said Cronin, ‘it is the only thing I can do. Now let’s get the horses sorted, we have a hard ride ahead of us.’

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  Chapter Nineteen

  The Judean Mountains

  November 15th

  AD 1177

  Cronin and Hassan had ridden south east for two days. On occasion, they were forced to hide away from patrols of men riding under no banner, but Hassan was sure they were Ayyubid and the two Christians ensured they stayed well hidden from sight.

  ‘How far now?’ asked Cronin, sipping from a water skin.

  ‘Those hills to the front mark the edge of the Negev Desert,’ said Hassan, ‘and if I am correct, my family are there.’

  ‘Why do you have doubts? Did you not live there with them?’

  ‘I did but many years have passed, and their captors are nomads. This time of year, they should be back in this place.’

  ‘Well there is only one way to find out,’ said Cronin replacing the water skin onto his saddle, ‘and that is to take a look for ourselves.’ He urged his horse forward and headed for the distant hills.

  Hassan followed him and soon took the lead, taking the smaller paths amongst the scrub away from the main paths. For the rest of the day, they headed uphill until eventually, Hassan reined in his horse amongst some huge boulders.

  ‘From here we must walk,’ he said. ‘It’s not far.’

  ‘The last time we did this, you led me into a trap,’ said Cronin.

  ‘I swear in the name of our lord Jesus himself that this is not such a thing,’ said Hassan.

  ‘I will trust you, Hassan,’ said Cronin, ‘and anyway, this time I will not be caught out so easily.’ He tapped the handle of his sword. ‘Come, let’s go.’

  Leaving the two horses hobbled amongst the rocks they made their way through a series of small gulleys before Hassan dropped to his belly and crawled forward to look down into a cleft amongst the cliffs. Cronin joined him.

  Down below, the rocky floor of a small ravine was filled with the obvious signs of having once been an encampment. Circles of rocks indicated old fire places and the remains of long unused tents lay tangled amongst the sparse bushes that clung to the few areas of soil. Overall the place was silent, and it became obvious to the two watchers that the camp had long been abandoned.

  Hassan stared his heart heavy with despair. With the camp empty, it could only mean his family’s captors had moved on and he had no idea where he could find them. His head dropped, and he closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer, beseeching God to look after his mother and sister but a moment later, he felt Cronin nudge his arm and he looked up to see the sergeant pointing towards one side of the valley.

  Hassan followed his stare and his heart missed a beat, for there, at the tiny entrance of a cave stood a young woman holding a baby.

  ‘Do you know her?’ whispered Cronin.

  Hassan nodded but couldn’t speak. It was his sister.

  Despite his desperation to call out, he remained silent, knowing there could still be those around who could do her harm. As they watched another woman emerged from the cave and carried a leather bucket over to a pool of water amongst the rocks.

  ‘It is my mother,’ whispered Hassan through his tears, ‘God is truly merciful.’

  ‘I see no others,’ said Cronin, ‘and that camp hasn’t been used for a long time. Perhaps Mustapha’s men moved on and abandoned your women to survive alone.’

  ‘No,’ said Hassan. ‘Women are important to such men, and when they move camp, they are taken along. Something else has happened here.’

  ‘Come,’ said Cronin, ‘let’s get down there.’

  Carefully they made their way down the rocky slope, remaining hidden as long as possible until they were level with the two women, albeit a few hundred paces distant.

  ‘I have to go to them,’ said Hassan, standing up but was immediately pulled down by Cronin.

  ‘Wait,’ hissed the sergeant, ‘look.’

  He pointed to the far side of the valley and Hassan could see a man leading his horse down from the hill beyond.

  ‘It’s Mehedi,’ said the boy after a few moments, ‘he has come to hurt my family.’ He rose to his feet but again was pulled down by Cronin.

  ‘Wait,’ said Cronin, ‘if he sees you he may turn and run again.’

  ‘I care not for whether the man lives or dies,’ spat Hassan, ‘only that my family are safe.’

  ‘Just give me a moment,’ said Cronin. ‘I doubt very much that he is going to ride all this way just to kill them immediately. Let’s see what he does.’

  In the distance, Mehedi walked carefully down the rocky path, looking around him in bewilderment. It was obvious he had not expected it to be deserted.

  ‘I smell death,’ said Cronin as Mehedi drew closer, ‘yet see no corpses. Something has happened here and even your friend there is surprised his comrades are missing.’

  ‘My mother has seen him,’ whispered Hassan urgently and watched as she ducked low and led her daughter back into the cave.

  ‘Come on,’ said Cronin, ‘follow me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ replied Hassan.

  ‘I think we can get behind him without being seen,’ said Cronin, ‘and that path is the only way out for a horse. Stay low.’

  They crouched down and ran from boulder to boulder until eventually, they were on the far side of the valley, blocking off Mehedi’s only means of escape.

  ‘Now we have the advantage,’ said Cronin drawing his sword.

  Hassan drew his knife and together they stood up and walked silently toward the unsuspecting brigand.

  Cronin managed to get within twenty paces before Mehedi realised he was there. The Bedouin spun around and drew his blade, gasping in surprise when he saw the Templar sergeant standing alongside Hassan. For a moment there was silence as his eyes met Cronin’s and his fingers flexed nervously on the hilt of his sword as he silently weighed up his options.

  ‘You are a resourceful man, Christian,’ he said eventually, ‘and it seems you are determined to fight me.’

  ‘I do not want to fight you,’ said Cronin, ‘but will do so if you do not cede to my demands.’

  ‘And what demands are these?’ asked the Bedouin. ‘You have the boy. I have nothing else of value.’

  ‘I want the release of this boy’s family,’ said Cronin, ‘and I want the return of the property you stole from me.’

  ‘His family?’ said Mehedi with surprise. ‘I am not their captor, Christian. It was Mustapha who took them hostage years ago and yes they were once here but look around you, they are long gone.’

  ‘On the contrary, they seem to be the only ones alive in this place.’ He turned and nodded to Hassan. ‘Go and bring them out.’

  The boy sheathed his blade and ran across to the cave, leaving Cronin and Mehedi warily watching each other across the rocky floor.

  ‘If what you say is true,’ said Mehedi, ‘then why do you ask for that which you already have?’

  ‘Because I want to make it clear that when we ride away from this place, you will have no more interest in the boy or his family. What is done is done but from this day on, you will give him no more thought. Swear this and I promise you will live, but if I suspect you are lying, then the vultures of this place will tonight sleep with heavy stomachs.’

  ‘I cannot do that,’ said Mehedi but before the sergeant could answer, Hassan emerged from the cave along with his mother, sister and a young boy of about ten
years old. His sister carried a baby and Hassan shepherded them towards one side of the valley away from Mehedi and Cronin.

  ‘As you can see, Christian, they are as alive as you or I. Now let us live our own lives.’

  ‘You are also in possession something that does not belong to you,’ said Cronin, ‘and I want it back.’

  ‘If you refer to the bag,’ said Mehedi, ‘it has gone, used to feed the fire. Ask your little slave there,’ He nodded towards Hassan, ‘he saw us do it.’

  ‘I know the parchments are gone,’ said Cronin, ‘but there was a pendant, a cross of gold encrusted with jewels. That cross belongs to the pope himself and was a gift to King Baldwin. I want it back.’

  ‘I saw no such cross.’

  ‘You lie,’ said Hassan walking across from the rocks, ‘I saw you place it around your neck and share laughter with Mustapha as you discussed the price it would bring.

  Mehedi turned his head slowly and stared at the boy. His voice lowered, menacingly.

  ‘I think Mustapha was right,’ he said, ‘and we should have killed you sooner.’ He returned his gaze to Cronin, his scimitar hanging loosely at his side.

  ‘So, there was a cross, but Mustapha did not entrust it to me, he kept it about his person, and that, my friend, is the truth.’

  ‘I searched his body before I buried him,’ said Cronin, ‘it was not there.’

  ‘Then he must have kept it in his saddlebag,’ said Mehedi and his voice trailed away as he realised it was Mustapha’s horse he had been riding since he fled the scene of the fight. He turned to stare at the horse at his side, frustrated that all this time he may have been riding with a fortune close to hand but had never realised.

  ‘Check it,’ said Cronin pointing at the saddlebag, ‘and don’t try anything stupid. If you try to escape I will cut your horse’s legs from beneath you as you pass.’