Doctor Who and the Crusaders (7 page)

‘I, Richard, King of England, by the grace of God…’

Ian raised his eyes and looked up at the King as he spoke the words over his head, suddenly and sharply aware of the extraordinary turn of fate which had plucked him away from his own time and chosen to set him down at another to receive the honour. Yet, conscious as he was of the incredibility of it, and of the wide gulf that separated him from the man before whom he knelt, still the tremendous weight of the occasion bore down on him making his heart beat fast and drying his throat. Then he realized that Richard had stopped and was laying down the sword, holding out his hand. Ian pressed his lips to it and felt the King lift him up to his feet.

‘Rise up, Sir Ian, Knight of Jaffa,’ said Richard. ‘You shall be my man, be chivalrous and brave. But most of all,’ he went on, his eyes twinkling with humour, ‘keep my secret.’

Ian inclined his head, almost lost for words and only just remembering to stumble out some words of gratitude.

‘No more speeches,’ said the King firmly. ‘Go to Saladin. Bring back this lady, and Sir William if you can. And bring me news.’

Ian bowed, gripped the Doctor’s hand, smiled at Vicki and walked out of the room, every fresh step sharpening the picture he had of Barbara in his mind, refusing to admit he might not find her, relieved at last that the search had begun.

When Barbara came to her senses, she found herself in a small ante-chamber, lying on top of some rugs laid on a long seat. She raised herself up on one elbow and gazed out of a window made up of many beautifully-carved arches which looked down on to a courtyard. She was not in a position to see much of what was happening below her, but the sounds of men and horses floated upwards. She glanced round the room and saw a tall man with dark hair talking to a woman by one of the arched entrances to the room. Beyond them, the impassive figure of a huge Negro stood, naked to the waist, a thick curved sword held across his shoulder, blade uppermost, his arms folded across his chest.

The man in the hunting clothes gave the woman some coins and took a cloak from her. The woman hurried out, passing the guard outside fearfully, who simply turned his massive head to examine her and then resumed his contemplation of the corridor ahead of him. The man walked towards Barbara, the cloak held out in his hands. She started back slightly, uncertainly, then relaxed as the man smiled pleasantly.

‘I do you no harm,’ he said gently, laying the cloak over her. He sat on the bench beside her, reached down and picked up a simple goblet and a jug and poured out some water and handed it to her, watching her while she drank gratefully.

‘I do not know who you are or how you came to be in the wood outside Jaffa. Your clothing is so strange I felt you would like a cloak to cover you.’

Barbara realized how odd her short skirt must appear and felt it better to keep her own counsel, without inventing any
excuses which might make things worse. She thanked him for his courtesy and asked him where they were.

‘We are at the Sultan Saladin’s palace at Ramlah.’

‘I expected to wake up in prison. Why are we here?’

The man smiled, adding more water to the goblet.

‘As for you, I can make no guess. But I am here as King Richard, leader of the mighty host, the scourge of the Infidel.’

Barbara said, ‘Richard had red hair.’

‘Had! Still has, if the ruse has worked.’

He told her what had happened in the forest, how the Saracens had ambushed them, how he had seen Richard knocked into some bushes and had seized the opportunity to cause a diversion to allow the King to get away.

‘I am Sir William des Preaux, and some smiles will turn to long faces soon, I have no doubt.’

‘What happened to… the others. In the forest?’

Sir William shrugged. ‘I do not know. But I have a hopeful heart and, what is better, a lucky King. And you, who will not say her name?…’

‘Barbara.’

‘I am keen to know why one so gentle puts herself amid the swords and arrows. And your garments are a fashion in themselves.’

‘Take me back to that forest, Sir William, and I’ll answer all your questions.’

‘You ask for the impossible very lightly.’

‘Is it so impossible?’

‘Today it is. I am the captive of one El Akir, an Emir in Saladin’s forces. He believes I am the King and thinks he has won the war for his master. He is puzzled about you, as I am, and means to question you. How can I explain you to them?’

Barbara drank the last of the water and put the goblet
down on the floor.

‘Let me help you with your pretence,’ she suggested. ‘Who rides with the King?’

‘Berengaria, the Queen, is in Acre. But the Princess!’

He smacked a hand down on the bench delightedly.

‘You shall be Joanna, my sister, and support me in my lies. Then we shall truly make El Akir look stupid. To cause disruption among allies is just as good as cutting them in two in battle.’

Barbara said, ‘I seem to have found a brother and a title.’

‘And a friend.’

‘That’s a very comforting thought.’

‘We will not confuse Saladin,’ murmured des Preaux, ‘but we will make El Akir lose face.’

‘From the look of him, that might be an improvement.’

The knight put back his head and laughed delightedly.

‘You appear to be in good spirits,’ said a voice from the archway, and they both turned as El Akir strode into the room. His clothes were richer now, particularly a white knee-length coat of satin, edged with gold, and held together at the waist with a belt of finely-worked silver.

‘Enjoy yourselves while you may,’ he continued, standing in front of them arrogantly. Sir William yawned obviously and El Akir’s eyes gleamed for a moment. In a second, he controlled himself, but Barbara recognized in him a dangerous and vicious enemy.

‘The Sultan Yusef Salah ed-Din ibn Ayjub has commanded that all prisoners be treated with compassion. Would you not say his wishes have been complied with?’

‘I have no complaint for myself,’ replied Sir William, ‘but the Sultan of Egypt and Syria will not be pleased when he learns of the way my sister has been treated.’

‘Your sister?’ El Akir looked quickly at Barbara, who had
drawn the cloak around her closely.

‘Aye, Joanna, widow of William the Second of Sicily; fifth child of Henry the Second of England; Princess of a domain stretching from the Cheviots to the Pyrenees…’

‘This explains why you were in the forest,’ interrupted El Akir, his eyes widening. Barbara could almost see his mind working. Sir William plunged in heavily to the attack, assuming an expression of extreme indignation.

‘My sister has been grossly ill-treated,’ he stormed. ‘Slung over a horse with her hands and feet tied together, to be carried like a sack of flour. Handled roughly by your men, foul rags stuffed in her mouth! Is this the compassion your mighty Sultan speaks of?’

‘Enough of this,’ snapped the Emir. ‘The woman is all of one piece.’

Sir William shot out a hand, gripped hold of El Akir’s clothes and twisted the man so that he was nearly on his knees.

‘Woman?! Watch your tongue, Saracen.’

In an instant guards came running into the room and the two men were pulled apart. As the guards bent the Englishman’s hands behind his back, El Akir stepped forward and slapped him viciously across the face.

‘You have no rights, no privileges, nothing except the benevolence of our ruler! But he will not side against me if you are too insolent. Remember, you are a prisoner here, not a free man.’ He turned to Barbara and eyed her appreciatively.

‘I came to learn your identity. That you are the King’s sister bodes well for me. I can serve both the Sultan and Malec el Adil, or Saphadin as you call him. The brother of the Sultan will rejoice to see the woman he has for so long admired. Bring them!’

El Akir turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Fortune had played no part in his achievements of the past. He was an Emir simply because he had murdered his brother. He had riches because he had stolen them. Behind the man lay a dark trail of evil, without one saving grace, without one worthy deed. Even the scar he carried on his face was an advertisement of one of the worst of his acts, when he had attempted, after he had murdered his brother, to capture the weeping widow, a woman he had envied and desired until the deed of fratricide was no longer simply for the title but just as much for the wife as well. But when he stood before her, his hand still holding the sword of death, telling the grief-stricken girl what he had done and what her future was to be, a sudden horror of him, plus a determination he should suffer for his crime, had made her find a desperate courage. She had seized up a heavy ornament and struck at him with all her passionate anger. Although his servants had run in and thrust their swords into her, as El Akir lay groaning on the ground, she still had strength enough to say he would carry the sign of murderer until the day he died. And now all women were his enemies and El Akir delighted in enslaving them. So his pleasure, as he strode towards the Sultan’s chamber, was great: a woman would be humbled, her pride destroyed, and he would find favour and perhaps the close confidence of Saladin and Saphadin.

He gained admittance to the chamber of the Sultan without delay and found Saphadin examining a map. The room was divided by a heavy silk curtain and behind it the Emir knew Saladin sat, meditating on the disposition of his armies, pondering on strategy and ready to hear without being seen.

‘Malec el Adil, I bring good fortune not only for him who rules over us, but for your delight as well.’

Saphadin looked up from the map, rolled it in his hands
and walked over to a low couch heavily draped with fine materials. He sat down and gestured with his hand for El Akir to continue.

‘My brother hears you as I do.’

‘Know then,’ said El Akir, raising his voice slightly, ‘that I have the instrument to vanquish the invaders from across the seas and bring victory.’

Saladin, sitting on the other side of the curtain, heard the words and moved his head slightly, his interest caught. A man of slight build, with a somewhat melancholy face in repose which entirely altered once he smiled, Saladin was many of the things a leader of men needed to be. His force of personality was tremendous, although he did not fight as Richard Coeur de Lion did, at the head of his men. This was not through cowardice but simply that his position as Sultan of the mighty Moslem army forbade such action. He had simple tastes, with a hatred for coarseness and ostentation. His courts abounded with philosophers and well-read men. He was refined, courteous and generous. Above all, he had a fine sense of humour. None of these things was as important as the undoubted ability he had to command and control the vast armies at his disposal. Syrians, Turks, Arabs, each nationality divided into different tribes and loyalties, status and rivalry; each commander jealous of his position; every army anxious to gain success in the field.

Saladin’s personal position was only secure when his plans led to victory. He knew to the last degree how tenuous his hold was over the Moslem host (collectively called Saracens by the Crusaders) and that is why his fairness, courtesy and refinement, which no insecurity of position could shake, were all the more to be wondered at.

He listened now, fascinated, as El Akir related the events leading up to the encounter in the forest outside Jaffa, his
hands pressed together, almost as if in prayer. The arrogant, triumphant voice of the Emir came to the end of his story.

‘And so, Prince, I bring you now the result of that skirmish in the wood.’ El Akir snapped his fingers and a guard led Sir William des Preaux into the chamber.

‘The King of the English, leader of the invaders, Malec Ric,’ he stated. Saphadin remained seated on his throne staring at the Knight curiously and El Akir was half disappointed at the effect. ‘The Lion is in our cage, Prince,’ he pointed out, but still the expected praise did not issue forth from Saphadin’s lips.

‘This is but one part of it,’ went on the Emir, puzzled by the attitude of his superiors. ‘Another prize was in that wood, a glittering jewel already sparkling in your eyes, El Adil. This priceless stone I bring to lay before you, as your heart desires.’

Once again he snapped his fingers, and another guard escorted Barbara into the chamber. El Akir moved to her, took her elbow and brought her before Saphadin.

‘The sister of the Malec Ric; Joanna is the way they call her. Here for your command.’

Saphadin looked at Barbara impassively and then at Sir William. His eyes moved to the face of the Emir.

‘King Richard and his sister, Joanna?’

El Akir said: ‘No less.’

‘Less than less!’ Saphadin spat out viciously, and El Akir stepped back at the fury in the other’s voice. ‘Who is this creature, this rowdy jackal who yaps at my feet with tales of fortune and success! Not El Akir, trusted captain. It must be some odious devil who has taken his form and sent himself to torment me!’

‘My lord… all I have said is true…’

‘You vile worm, do you think I do not know the face and the form of the Princess Joanna?’