by Griff Hosker
Chapter 8
Henry Samuel sat on the other side of the bed and Mark at the foot. I think he still felt some sort of responsibility for the wounds my father had received. Silence filled the room and Henry Samuel broke it. “Will we go home now, uncle?”
“Why? Our work is not done.”
“We lost the battle.”
“A battle was lost but not by us. We still hold Jerusalem and our enemies are divided. We must stay strong and we will prevail but my father may well travel home if he is well enough. You should go with him.”
I saw the dilemma written all over my nephew’s face. He would wish to travel home with my father yet not miss out on potential glory. My father had been knighted after Arsuf. It was the sort of dream every young squire and page dreamed of. There would be no test, no vigil, no song composed and sung before an audience, no sergeant at arms to test you with lance and sword. One moment a squire and the next a knight. My father had shown that it could happen.
I smiled at Sam; he was still young, “All of this is in the future. The doctor says that he will not know my father’s condition until he wakes and he can be examined. We just sit and we watch. If he wakes, we tell the doctor; that is all.” Twelve hours can seem endless and just watching this mummified man who was as still as a corpse was hard to bear. We knew the passage of time when candles spluttered and died and we relit a fresh one. Twelve hours had passed and still, he had not woken.
The doctor returned and frowned, “He has not woken?”
“He has barely stirred, Conrad. I listened at his mouth and he breathes but that is all.”
The doctor leaned over and listened. He put his hand under the bedsheets and felt his heart. “His signs are all good. This may mean that the operation has failed. A man can only survive for so long on broth, beer and wine.” He turned and spoke to Father Paul, “Fetch sal ammoniac. Let us see if it can rouse him.”
“Is that wise?” I had heard of this liquid whose smell was so powerful that it was said, it could wake the dead!
“There is much we do not know about the medicine we practise. I know not if it is wise but it is something that I will try.”
Father Paul returned with the vial and, after opening the waxed top and looking for the nod from Conrad, held the pungent potion under my father’s nose. There was a momentary pause and then my father coughed; suddenly his eyes popped wide open. It was the first time I had seen his eyes since the Battle of Gaza and I took it to be a good sign.
“Praise God!”
His eyes darted to me as I spoke!
Conrad nodded, “He can hear and, I am guessing, he can see for he looked at you. We know that he can smell. Let us see if he can speak. Sir Thomas, who am I?”
His eyes narrowed as though he was concentrating. “I know I should know you but your name… you are next to my son and so you must be a friend!”
“Praise be to God; he knows you are his son! I am Conrad von Schweistein your physician and this is wondrous. Father Paul, have some soft eggs and bread prepared. Fetch a bowl of soft fruit.”
“He is healed, doctor?” My hopes began to rise.
Conrad laughed at my question. “Let us say we have taken a couple of tentative steps. We have more to learn but for now, this is enough. While he eats why do you not tell him what has happened since he was wounded?”
I stood, “Aye, I will but first, Mark, go and tell our men the good news.” I threw him a purse. “The ale and wine are on me. If they drink that purse dry there is another!”
“Aye lord.” He caught the purse and then ran to my father. He grabbed his hands and kissed them. They still clutched the cross, “I am sorry I failed you, lord. If you will give me another chance, I will do much better.” Before my father could respond he ran out.
“He seems like a thoughtful boy; do I know him? I seem to recognise him but I could not put a name to him.”
I looked at the doctor who shrugged, “It is early days. He knows you and that is important. Ask him if he knows Henry Samuel.”
“Sam, speak.”
I saw tears welling up in my nephew’s eyes. What if his grandfather did not recognise him? “Do you know me grandfather?”
My father turned his head and smiled, “Of course for you are the image of my son, Alfred. You are his boy.”
We all breathed a sigh of relief. He knew his family and that was a start.
Conrad said, “Do you think that you could move up the bed to sit upright. If not, we will help you.”
“I am not a child nor an invalid, doctor. Of course, I can!” Although he managed it, I saw trouble in his eyes.
The doctor did too. “What is wrong, Earl?”
“It is probably nothing but I could not feel the covers when I pushed.”
Conrad went to the bottom of the bed and lifted the sheet. “But you can smell?”
“I smelled the stink which woke me and I can smell the perfume you wear doctor. I can smell my son’s sweat. Aye, I can smell.”
The doctor lowered the sheet. “But you cannot feel me stroking the bottom of your feet. Like your memory that may return but…”
My father nodded, “Then again it may not.” He gripped his cross tightly and then frowned. “I have much to thank God for. I have a son and grandson who live and I am not yet dead. Yet I cannot feel the wood on this cross.”
“I will leave you. The Master of the Hospitallers has some writing about this type of wound. I will read. Your father is correct, Sir William. This is a time for celebration for he lives and we know not what the future holds.”
He left us and I saw my father had laid the cross next to him and was looking at his hands as though they were not his own. “So, father, we fought a battle, or rather a battle was fought at Gaza and you bravely led our men to try to save the remnants of the army which was being slaughtered.”
“I had forgotten that.” He folded his hands together and smiled, “Tell me all and perhaps it may stir some memories in my head which I confess feels as though I am in a fog.”
I told him of the battle and Henry Samuel added other details. Although I saw sadness when I told him of the deaths it was clear he knew not who they were. The Earl of Fife, Amaury de Montfort, all of these were unknown. Yet, as we spoke, he recalled the names of all of our family and the landmarks around Stockton. He commented on the women laughing around St. John’s well as they collected their water. I knew there was hope but I was confused. My father would take time to heal and until the day came when he was whole again, I would still be the leader of the conroi.
The next day Conrad allowed the men of Stockton to visit in twos and threes. My father remembered some, like Cedric, Padraig and Richard Red Leg, but the ones who had served less than a year he did not. The Duke of Brittany came and my father did not recognise him. The King did not come.
At the end of a week, Conrad met with me and Henry Samuel. “This has been a most interesting case, Sir William.” He saw the frown on my face. “I am sorry, I know this is distressing for you as I talk of your father as though he is inanimate but you must understand I delved inside a brain and a brain which was damaged. I can now see the damage.” I almost held my breath. It was like waiting for a sentence. “Firstly, the memory; he has lost the most recent memories yet he can remember his latest grandson being born. He can relearn the memories he needs to. He still recalls events from long ago. I believe you spoke of Arsuf?”
I nodded, “It was close to Arsuf where we found him when Peter of York lit the fire. He said it was wyrd.”
Henry Samuel said, “I did not understand the word.”
Conrad smiled, “It is from the Baltic. All this is good. What is less good is the lack of feeling. It is as though the senses on his skin have been taken from him.”
“So, he cannot feel, where is the problem?”
Conrad took a candle and held it to me. “Put your hand close to the flame.” I did so until the heat made me pull it away. “Your father would not pull it away. He wi
ll need to be watched. Tomorrow I will return to Montfort for I have been away for long enough and I am needed there. Before I do, we will take your father to walk around the castle. Let him see his horse. If we can I would like him to try to ride. Riding is a skill which is learned. Does he still have that skill? I do this not because I wish him to go to war again but I have spoken at length with your father and believe I know him a little. He will not wish to ride in a car or a wagon. When I have watched him attempt these things, I will be able to give a more accurate assessment of the effects of the wound and the operation I conducted. I have examined the surgery and there is no bad smell. Brother Paul and the other priests will continue to keep the wound clean. He has eaten well and just needs to walk. We will see if he can walk unaided. He may be unsteady but that is to be expected.”
Mark and Henry Samuel helped to dress my father. Padraig had saddled Willow and our knights and men waited in the bailey. When he stood, my father swayed a little. Conrad said, “That is not unusual. Older people do not have the same balance as someone who is young. Earl, can you walk?”
My father said, irritably, “Of course I can walk.” I noticed that he constantly rubbed his fingers together as though trying to get feeling back into them. He stepped forward and reminded me of my nephew Geoffrey when he had first learned to walk. My father reached the door and smiled, “There, I told you.”
“Now the stairs. There is a rail and I would use it to keep yourself steady. Mark, walk before him to stop him falling.”
This seemed inordinately cruel of the doctor. The spiral staircase was not easy to navigate but my father nodded and, stepping through the door took the rail and began to make his way down the stairs. That he made it surprised all of us save Conrad and my father. I carried my father’s sword. Conrad had asked me to bring it. As we stepped out into the bright and chilly December morning my father raised his eyes to shade them from the sun. For some reason that delighted Conrad. He saw my look and said, “I feared that some other of his natural instincts would have gone but this bodes well.”
As we stepped into the bailey and Mark moved to the side our men saw him and cheered. My father smiled and walked towards Padraig and Willow. He stroked Willow’s muzzle but the frown told me that he had hoped he would feel the soft hair. Willow snorted and seemed to nod.
Conrad said, “Sir William.”
I stepped forward. “Father, your sword.” He looked quizzically at me. “You do not need it here for you are safe but you are a knight.”
“Quite so. Mark.” He held his hands up so that Mark could fit it.
Conrad said, quietly, “Earl, could you draw the weapon?”
Mark said, “My lord, he will not have the strength!”
“No, Mark, the doctor is quite right. I am a knight and I should be able to hold a sword.” He took a deep breath and drew the sword from the scabbard. Mark had cleaned and oiled it and it slid out easily.
As he raised it up Padraig shouted, “Sir Thomas, Earl of Stockton!”
Our men took up the chant. I saw my father smile and then swing the blade back and forth in the exercises he had taught Alfred and me. He had not forgotten how to wield a sword. He slid it back in the scabbard and nodded.
“And now, Earl, try to mount your horse.”
Willow was the gentlest of horses and she stood stock still as Mark helped to place my father’s foot in the stirrup. Henry Samuel was on hand in case he could not swing his leg over Willow’s rump but he managed it and even succeeded in slipping his foot into the other stirrup.
Padraig handed him the reins and nodded to him, “It is good to see you in the saddle, my lord.”
In answer, my father touched his heels into Willow’s flanks and the palfrey began to trot around the bailey. At first, my father used two hands but then changed first to his right and then his left. He stopped next to Padraig, “So I am not completely useless. I can walk, wield a sword and ride. There is hope.”
Conrad took me by the arm as Padraig and Mark helped him down. “I have done all that I can. I believe that there is nothing more your father can do in this land and should return home to England. He came as close to death as any man I have ever treated. God has given him a reprieve. He should exercise regularly and within a month or more he should be able to travel.”
“But the winter storms mean that he will not be able to do so until April or May, but I thank you. I will retain command of the retinue until he goes home.”
“You know that he will wish to stay but you must be strong and make him return to England. I have written a letter to give to the doctors he will see when he is home.”
“Of course, he will try to stay and I have my arguments ready. Take care, Conrad von Schweistein and go with God.”
I never saw him again but my family, England and the King had much to thank him for. He gave us back the warlord’s heir.
The first thing my father demanded was to leave the hospital and move back to our camp. Despite the conditions, it seemed to make him happy and, indeed, except for the memory losses, which continued, and the constant rubbing of fingers, he looked to be back to himself. The bandage would remain wrapped around his head for another two weeks. I spent as much time with him as I could. All of the men knew to watch for danger. He was like a small child who knew no fear. Hot things were a danger as were sharp objects. He managed to badly slice his hand on his sword the second day after Conrad left. It was so deep that it needed stitches and I knew that he was annoyed with himself. It meant he could not practise with his sword.
A week after Conrad had departed a rider galloped in with the most unwelcome of news. Jerusalem had fallen! An-Nasir Dawud, the emir whose caravan we had raided, had captured it after a short siege. He allowed the garrison to march out and they brought us the news. It caused much consternation and conflict in our camp. The King of Navarre was held responsible for he had made no attempt to strengthen the paltry garrison and the arguments, to which my father and I were a party, almost did the Muslim’s work for them. It nearly came to the point of Christian fighting Christian but good sense prevailed. That good sense came, ironically, from my father. He was the one who had had a serious head wound and yet he seemed to think clearer than any. Perhaps it was the wound which afforded him more consideration for while others were shouted down, when my father stood, silence fell upon the gathering of barons.
“It seems to me that we are making more of this incident than we should.” I saw knights look at each other wondering how he could make light of such a disaster. “The enemy is still a loose confederation of men who do not like each other.” He smiled and waved a hand around the assembled warriors, “A little like we are becoming.” I saw Duke Peter smile as some knights flushed with embarrassment. “Emir An-Nasir Dawud is neither popular nor powerful. He has allies in Egypt but As-Salih Ismail, Emir of Damascus is his sworn enemy. What of the Emir of Homs and the Emir of Hama? Let us use our enemies to defeat our enemies.”
He paused and drank some wine. Each day he had had me tell him about the politics of the Holy Land for he knew his faulty memory had too many gaps in it. It seemed to me that his memory improved each day. It was as though it was a muscle he had ceased to use and it needed to be active to help it to recover. Although his fingers could still not feel, his memory gradually improved. However, I was by his side all of the time and when he hesitated with names, as he had done with Al-Adil, I had been able to prompt him quietly.
“And then there are the knights who live in this region; men like Bohemond of Antioch. Let us use them. I say we use this time to visit our allies and those who might be allies to build up a confederation which can defeat the Egyptians and retake Jerusalem from this Turk!”
It was a masterful demonstration from a man who was still an invalid. He had shown me his skill on the battlefield many times but that day he showed me another skill, the skill of strategy; he had said that which the King should have done and it united the knights. King Thibaut thanked my father and it
was decided to ride north to visit with Bohemond of Antioch and seek an alliance with Emir Al-Muzaffar Mahmud of Hama. At the same time, other parts of the army were asked to raid into the lands around Jerusalem to probe for weaknesses. My father wished to travel to Hama but it was decided he still needed to recover and was left at Acre. That meant that my knights were amongst those sent east to probe for weaknesses. The English contingent was going to war once more. Richard Red Leg and Mark were left with my father’s page, John, while the rest of us left the safety of Acre for the dangers of the Jordan!
Chapter 9
This time we were riding to war and that meant a different approach than the last time we had headed for Jerusalem. The Duke of Brittany who had gone north with the King had also left ten conroi to do as we were doing and raid the land held by An-Nasir Dawud. Men who had been at Gaza and whose lords were still in captivity volunteered to join the conroi for they wished to fight back. Our intention was to conduct what was, to all intents and purposes, a chevauchée. We would kill soldiers, capture animals and destroy, where we could, enemy strongholds. It was my father’s strategy and a clever one as it would focus the attention of the man who had captured Jerusalem on us while the King and the Duke tried to negotiate alliances with other Muslim leaders. It was also well-thought-out as the weather was more conducive to warfare. This was winter. There was rain but neither snow nor frost. Grazing was always a problem in the Holy Land no matter what the season.
