Eagle (3 page)

The meal that Basimah and her two kitchen servants had prepared to welcome Shirkuh exceeded even her usual high standards. Crisp, freshly baked flatbread and a roasted eggplant and walnut dip were followed by a divine apricot stew, the sweet fruit blending perfectly with savoury morsels of lamb. Yusuf sighed. It was his favourite dish, but thanks to Ibn Jumay, everything tasted like rotten eggs. Yusuf ignored the food and
listened to Ayub and Shirkuh, desperate to know if he would be joining his father on his mission to Damascus. But as the stew gave way to lentils and roast lamb, Ayub and Shirkuh continued to talk of mundane matters: harvests, the size of their herds and that year’s tribute.

Finally, after the last dish had been cleared away, and servants had brought cups of sweet orange juice to refresh them, Yusuf’s father cleared his throat and clapped his hands twice to get their attention. ‘Shirkuh has brought troubling news. The Franks have launched a second crusade. The French king and queen are expected to land in Antioch any day now. They may be there already.’

‘Allah help us!’ Basimah exclaimed. ‘This means war.’

‘That it does,’ Shirkuh agreed. ‘And it will be all we can do to turn back the Franks. Our spies say they are bringing hundreds of knights, with those accursed warhorses of theirs. We will need every sword that we can muster.’

‘I will fight!’ Yusuf declared. ‘I am old enough.’

Basimah frowned, but Shirkuh smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm. Ayub’s face remained an expressionless mask as he turned his hard, grey eyes on his son. Yusuf sat up straight and returned his searching stare. Finally, his father nodded. ‘We must all do our part. That is why I must go to Damascus. Tomorrow, my men and I will leave for the city. Turan and Yusuf will come with me.’ Yusuf could not contain his smile.

‘Turan and Yusuf will—not—go!’ Basimah stated, her voice rising with each word. ‘You will not take my sons to be murdered by those barbarians.’

‘Peace, Wife,’ Ayub replied, his voice calm and even. ‘You forget your place.’

‘No, Husband, you forget yours. It is your duty to protect your sons, and yet you propose to lead them like lambs to the slaughter. Do you want them to be taken and sold as slaves? To come of age amidst the infidels?’

‘Our sons will not be taken. I am not bringing them to fight,
but they are of an age when they must learn the ways of war. They must come to know our enemy.’

‘And if Damascus falls, what then? The Franks are savages. They know nothing of God or mercy. They know only blood and the sword. They killed my father, my mother, my brother. They—’ Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away. ‘They did horrible things. They will not kill my sons!’

‘If Damascus falls, then your sons will not be safe anywhere,’ Shirkuh said gently. ‘You cannot protect them forever, Basimah.’

Basimah opened her mouth to retort, but Ayub raised his hand, stopping her. ‘I give you my word that no harm will befall Turan or Yusuf. They are my sons, too.’

Basimah’s head fell. ‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘Come, Zimat. There is work to be done. Let us leave these men to their talk.’ She rose and ushered Zimat out, but then stopped in the doorway. When Basimah turned back to them, her eyes shone with tears. ‘I have your word, Ayub. You will bring my children back to me.’

APRIL TO JUNE 1148: ACRE

J
ohn leaned over the ship’s rail and vomited into the sparkling, clear blue waters of Acre harbour. His company of knights had been at sea for a week, sailing down the coast of Outremer from Attalia, and John had been miserably sick the entire trip. Still, he thanked God that he had not been left behind, prey to hunger, thirst and the devilish Seljuk Turks. They had shadowed the crusading army throughout the long march across the arid lands of Anatolia, swooping down after dark on their sleek horses and riddling the crusaders with arrows before melting back into the night like ghosts. The Seljuks had killed thousands, and when the leaders of the crusade took a handful of men and sailed from Attalia, thousands more had been left to the Turks’ mercy. At sixteen, John was only a foot-soldier, but his noble blood had entitled him to a place on the ships. At least it was good for something, he thought, and then puked again.

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at the city of Acre. Ships lined the curving quay, their tall masts bare of sails. On the decks, sailors were busy unloading casks, sacks of grain and bleating sheep. Beyond the ships, the harbour was crowded with market stalls, and past them sat square, dusty-white buildings set one on top of the other. To John’s right, the buildings stretched away to a massive tower, part of the wall that protected the city; to his left, they ran uphill to a thick-walled citadel.

‘Saxon!’ someone barked, and John turned to see the hulking, thickly bearded figure of Ernaut stomping towards him. Ernaut smirked when he saw the trail of yellow-brown vomit on John’s white surcoat. ‘Stop your puking and get your arse over here. Lord Reynald wants to speak to us.’

John followed Ernaut to the foredeck, where the other men had gathered in their chainmail and surcoats, white with red crusader’s crosses on the chest. Ernaut disappeared into the rear cabin and returned a moment later with Reynald. Reynald de  Chatillon was a handsome, well-proportioned man of twenty-three. He had sharp features, closely cropped hair and a well-groomed, short black beard. He smiled at them, revealing even, white teeth.

‘My men,’ he began, ‘it has been nearly a year since we left our homes for the Holy Land. Now at last, by the grace of God, we have arrived, and our holy work can begin.’ Several of the men sniggered. Reynald had drunk and whored his way through every village between Worms and Attalia. Reynald’s eyes narrowed and his smile faded. The sniggering stopped immediately.

‘You may be wondering why we have not sailed to Antioch with King Louis and the others,’ Reynald continued. ‘Our king has entrusted me with an important mission at the court of Baldwin, King of Jerusalem.’ As he was speaking, three of the ship’s sailors leapt the short distance to the dockside, grabbed ropes and began to pull the boat tight against the quay. ‘As emissaries of King Louis, we must be on our best behaviour.’ Reynald’s voice was hard-edged. ‘I will go ashore to announce our presence to King Baldwin. You are to wait at the docks until we are told where to camp. I want no trouble. That means no women and no wine.’ The men groaned. Reynald’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, and the men quieted. Reynald was a deadly swordsman. He nodded, satisfied. ‘You will wait here,’ he repeated and marched off down the gangway the sailors had set up, followed by two sergeants, Thomas and Bertran.

‘You heard Lord Reynald!’ Ernaut bellowed at the men. ‘There’s to be no trouble. Now get below and grab your gear.’

John followed the other men below decks. The dank hold was lit only dimly by a shaft of light shining through the hatch above. The huge warhorses whose stalls took up most of the space nickered and stamped, thinking that they were going to be fed. John kept his distance. It was not the size of the chargers that set them apart from other horses, so much as their temperament. It had been John’s task during the voyage to muck out their stalls, and he had been bitten, stepped on or kicked more than once.

John headed away from the stalls to the cramped space where the knights had slept, their thin blankets laid out almost on top of one another. John grabbed the leather rucksack containing his helmet, spare tunic, simple tent, woollen blanket and prayer book. He already wore his most valuable possessions: leather boots and breeches; chainmail armour that hung to his knees; a tattered cloak; a tall, kite-shaped shield slung over his back; a waterskin dangling from his shoulder; and hanging from his belt, his father’s sword and a pouch containing a few coppers and his wetting stone.

John climbed from the hold with his rucksack slung over his shoulder and marched down the gangway. Several other men were kneeling on the ground and kissing the soil. John joined them, crossing himself and offering up a prayer to the Virgin for his safe arrival. It seemed like a lifetime since he had fled England with only the armour on his back and a sword at his side. He had joined the crusade in Worms and marched through the great cities of Salonika, Constantinople and Ephesus. Now, at last, he was in Outremer, the Holy Land. He rose and breathed deeply. The usual smells of a port – salty sea air and freshly caught fish – were overlaid with more pungent odours from the nearby market: heavily perfumed women, roasting meats, yeasty bread and burning incense. Joining the other men, John took his helmet from his rucksack and sat on it. The
late-morning sun beat down, and he wiped sweat from his brow as he gazed at the market. Only a few feet away, two olive-skinned Saracens in white burnouses – loose-fitting cloaks with broad sleeves – were selling swords and knives. John had never seen anything like the blades, with their polished steel surfaces covered in interlacing patterns in darker grey.

‘What are they doing here?’ said one of the knights, pointing at the two Saracens. He was a loudmouth named Aalot, nicknamed
One Eye
. He claimed that he had lost his eye fighting the English in Normandy, but John had heard that a vengeful prostitute was to blame. ‘I thought we came to fight those sand-devils, and here they are setting up shop in a Christian city.’

‘Let it be, One Eye,’ Ernaut ordered. ‘We’re not to make any trouble.’

One Eye spread his hands in protest. ‘I’m not making trouble.’ He turned to Rabbit, the youngest of the men at only thirteen. His real name was Oudin, but the men had dubbed him
Rabbit
, as much for the way his nose twitched when he was nervous as for his large ears, which were completely out of proportion to his skinny, freckled face. ‘I hear the Saracens eat their captives,’ One Eye said. ‘They cut their hearts out while they’re still alive and eat them raw.’

‘That’s after they bugger them,’ another of the men added.

Rabbit’s eyes were wide. ‘Those are just stories.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ One Eye insisted. ‘You fought in the first crusade, Tybaut. You tell him.’

Tybaut, a grey-haired bull of a man, was sharpening his sword with slow, rasping strokes of his wetting stone. He did not look up as he spoke in a low, gravelly voice. ‘You’re young enough, Rabbit, that they’d take you as a slave. Then they’d bugger you.’ The men laughed. Rabbit’s nose twitched.

‘It’s damnable hot out here,’ Ernaut grumbled, interrupting the laughter. ‘You, Saxon! Go and fetch me some water.’ He tossed John a leather waterskin.

‘Christ’s blood!’ John cursed under his breath as he rose. ‘Yes, sir,’ he added more loudly.

‘Me too, Saxon,’ said One Eye, tossing John his skin. Two-dozen more waterskins followed as the other men added theirs.

‘’Sblood!’ John cursed again. As the second youngest member of the troop and an Englishman too, he was subjected to constant ribbing and always assigned the most degrading of tasks. He began to gather up the skins. It would be all he could do to carry them back once they were filled, and that’s if he could find a well.

‘I’ll help.’ Rabbit shouldered eight of the waterskins.

‘Remember, Saxon: you’re only supposed to fill up the skins!’ One Eye made a crudely suggestive gesture with his hands, and the men laughed.

‘What’s he talking about?’ Rabbit asked.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ John told him as he began to shoulder his way through the market crowd, a mixture of fair-skinned Franks, bearded Jews, local Christians, Saracens and dark-skinned Africans, all dressed alike in turbans and loose burnouses. Veiled women passed through the crowd here and there, the men giving them wide birth. John passed a stall where a black-haired Italian was showing strips of leather to two clean-shaven Templars in the distinctive surcoats of their order: half-black, half-white and emblazoned with a red cross. Next to the stall, a monk in his black cowl was staring out to sea as he chewed some unidentifiable meat off a stick. John stopped next to him. ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for a well.’ The monk looked back uncomprehendingly, then spread his hands and said something in Greek. John moved on towards a veiled lady in a golden tunic, who was examining glass goblets at the booth of a fat, bearded Jew in a skullcap. ‘Pardon me, lady.’

She turned to look at him, wide-eyed. A second later, John was grabbed from behind and shoved roughly aside. He turned to see a tall, thickly muscled Frank in chainmail. ‘You’re not to
speak to the lady,’ the Frank growled. He and the lady moved away into the crowd.

John turned to the Jewish merchant. ‘Pardon me, sir,’ he began in Frankish, but the man shook his head and replied in a language that John did not understand. ‘Do you speak English?’ John tried. Again the Jew shook his head no, then tried another language that John did not recognize, and then another. ‘Latin?’ John asked.

The Jew’s eyes lit up. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m looking for a well.’

‘There are no wells in the city.’

‘No wells?’ John asked, dumbfounded.

‘There is a fountain, that way.’ The Jew pointed down the quay to a shadowy alleyway that led deeper into the city. ‘You will find water there.’

‘Thank you. Come on,’ John told Rabbit, switching back into Frankish. The two headed down the quay towards the alleyway.

‘How did you learn all of those languages?’ Rabbit asked.

‘I was a second son. I was trained to enter the Church.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

John winced. He gestured to the red crusader’s cross sewn to his surcoat. ‘I took up the cross instead.’

‘Why?’

‘None of your business,’ John snapped, but his words were drowned out by a shouting crowd just ahead. Men were pressed four-deep around a raised platform, where a skinny young Saracen stood, naked but for a thin loincloth.

An Italian slave merchant stood beside the Saracen, loudly touting his virtues in accented Latin. ‘He is strong as an ox,’ the Italian declared, squeezing the Saracen’s stringy bicep. He slapped the boy, who did not move. ‘And docile, too.’