The Black Rood (35 page)

The rope was pulled tight around my throat, looped back to my hands, and secured. When he finished, I was bound to Girardus—who was joined to someone else, and so on—and the warrior gave the rope a final tug and began leading us away. I stumbled forward into the strange and frightening nightmare world of the war captive.

S
O BEGAN THE
most wretched portion of my life. I will spare you the most painful incidents, dearest Caitríona. I could not bear the thought that my distress should cause you grief. Even through my sorest trial, my chief consolation was that you would not know how your father suffered. Thus, you would remain forever blissful in your memories of me—if indeed you should remember me at all. You were so young when I left you, heart of my heart; and for that I am sorry. Believe me, I have repented ten thousand times since then.

Ah, but dull ignorant man that I am, I did not perceive the Swift Sure Hand of God moving mightily in the chaos of those calamitous days. No doubt Padraig would have had the wit to perceive the subtle textures of our Lord's grand design in the intricate warp and weft of time and the myriad actions of men.

“Look here, Duncan,” the good priest might have said, “see how the cloak is made of many threads—some light, some dark. The pattern is in the interplay of both, and who but the weaver can foresee the design?”

I miss Padraig greatly and pray for him constantly, as I do for you, my soul. Yes, and every day I curse my ignorance and folly. How arrogant I was, imagining I could bring some small order into the chaos of the seething, benighted East. I rue the day I allowed myself to become so
deeply mired in affairs that did not concern me, and which only drew me farther and farther away from the true aim of the pilgrimage.

If we had but waited one more day—half-a-day, even!—the battle would have reached its inevitable conclusion, and I never would have been captured. Had we but waited half-a-day, I would not be here now at the pleasure of the Caliph of Cairo, by whose sufferance I yet draw breath. And yet, as Padraig never tires of pointing out: the Swift Sure Hand does bend all things to the good of those who love him.

As much as I entrust my hope to this belief, I cannot truly say I perceived the smallest tincture of good in that arduous and harrowing journey to Damascus. If there was a design in that, I confess I never saw it. Perhaps I may be forgiven my dullness of sight, however; most days, I was busy fighting for my life.

Amir Ghazi commanded the massed armies to move south at once. As I think on it now, he must have recognized the priceless opportunity he had won. Having vanquished Antioch's protecting forces, he moved to press his advantage as far as it would go.

So, without a pause to draw breath, much less celebrate their victory, the amir's army was on the move once more. In preparation for this, Seljuq warriors searched through the ranks of crusader captives with swords; anyone with a disabling wound was instantly put to death. Those with lesser injuries were spared, and allowed to continue so long as they could walk. Still, as the days passed, there were times when I reckoned a quick chop in the neck might have been the greatest kindness.

We marched from the plain of battle and into the low hills to the north and east. It was long past dark when we stopped. I spent a cold night on the ground in the company of eight other prisoners. We were tied together in groups to keep us from escaping, and each group separated from the others so that we could not raise rebellion.

Too disheartened to speak, we lay there on the stony ground and slept the sleep of the dead. Indeed, a good few
did not rise in the morning; and a fair few more who
did
begin the day's march did not finish.

That day cast the pattern for all the days to follow: our captors roused us at first light, prodding us awake with the butts of their spears. We were bound together two-by-two, each man to another with short cords around the ankles, and a slightly longer one around the neck; our hands were tied behind us. Then we were given a drink of water, and the army moved off, heading south. The main body of the Seljuq war host rode on ahead; the captives traveled behind with the slower-moving baggage train.

We shuffled along, watching the dull sky brighten, trying to ignore the leather rope chafing our ankles with every step. Soon the sun broke above the surrounding hills and we began to feel the heat of the day to come. As the sun climbed higher in the empty white shell of the sky, the heat mounted and leeched away the little strength the night had restored to us. By midday, some of the worse off had reached their journey's end; they collapsed along the trail.

Our Arab masters were deaf to the cries of the suffering and dying. They pushed mercilessly, pausing only to give us enough water to keep us alive and moving—never enough to satisfy our parched and burning throats.

Hungry, thirsty, aching from our various wounds and injuries, we shuffled over the barren hills, our heads down, our hearts cold hard stone in our chests. Day after infernal day. We did not talk; there was nothing to say.

The sun blazed down on our naked heads with the heat-blast of a forge fire. Sweat streamed from us, stinging our eyes and dissipating our rapidly dwindling strength to the arid desert air. In this way, the decimated Christian army dragged itself across the scorching wastes staggering under the burden of its wounded. Muted curses and muttered Psalms ascended heavenward in equal measure, as the slow torture of heat and thirst began to exact a cruel tariff.

When men fell, the nearest Seljuq guard would ride to see whether any purpose might be served in getting the man back on his feet. If the crusader had life enough in him,
those nearby were ordered to carry him. If not, he was simply left where he lay, and the death march moved on. Often those left behind cried out for the knife to end their misery, but these, like all other pleas, went unheeded.

The fourth day was the worst I have ever endured. Around midday, a badly wounded soldier collapsed directly in front of Girardus and myself, pulling down the man bound to him. The Seljuq guard rode up and, without bothering to dismount, commanded the three of us to get the unconscious man on his feet once more.

For this, we required the use of our hands, and so our bonds were loosed, which was a mercy in itself. The three of us were able to raise the wretch, but it was clear he could no longer walk unaided. So, we took it in turn to help him—with two holding him up between us and all but dragging him along while the third rested. When one of us became weary, the rested one would take his place, and so on.

Meanwhile, our suffering comrade drifted from bad to worse. After a time, he could no longer move his feet, and so we carried him, taking his entire weight on our shoulders. Damnably awkward it was, and it very quickly exhausted us. Soon it became a trial merely to put one foot before the other and remain upright.

I set my jaw to the task, and trudged on and on through the interminable length of that endless day. After a time, the searing ache in my legs and arms eased as my limbs grew gradually numb. I could no longer feel the uneven ground beneath my feet, and this caused me to stumble over rocks. Each lurch and jostle brought a moan from our unconscious comrade, but his complaints grew gradually weaker and more infrequent.

The land was a barrens of broken rock and thorns; gnarled trees, white with dust and shriveled by the merciless sun, twisted up from stony crevices. Everything in that godforsaken land was blasted, blighted and deformed. No less easy on the eye than underfoot, the harshness seared itself into the soul. Never did a scrap of green—or any other color—relieve the limitless sameness.

Seeking refuge from the sun and blight, I turned in my
mind to thoughts of Blessed Scotland, and the family waiting there; I brought the image of each face before my mind's eye, and prayed for the soul of every one I could recall. In this way, I withstood the rigors of that inhuman day.

When at last the sun began to fade behind the western hills, the Seljuqs stopped to make camp for the night. The three of us stiffly lowered our wounded comrade to the ground and collapsed beside him. We lay there panting like sun-scalded dogs, unmoving, sweat running in rivulets from our spent bodies to stain the dust beneath us.

The sun was almost down when one of the Seljuqs brought a water skin and revived us with a few mouthfuls of water. After I drank, I drew myself up on my elbows to rouse our wounded comrade so he could get his share. It was then I discovered he was dead.

When he died, and how long we had carried his lifeless corpse, I cannot say. All I know is that his life passed from him silently, and without so much as a sigh. He lay with his mouth open and eyes closed as if asleep—asleep forevermore.

The guard noted the death with a shrug and turned away. We slept that night tied to a corpse and were only released the next morning when the guard cut us free so we could move on. I prayed I would not die like that wretch, unmourned, unknown, nothing more than an accursed burden to those around me.

We were wakened the next morning to begin another hellish day. My arms and legs felt cast of lead; my head ached and my mouth was coated with scum. Those of us left alive were given a fair ration of water, which we gulped down quickly lest the guards change their minds. I thanked God for every mouthful. Many there were who could not face the day, and refused to get up. The Seljuqs killed two unfortunates where they lay, and the rest, faced with a spear in the gut and an agonizing, lingering death, found the strength to rise once more.

The land grew rough and craggy; the trail degenerated into rugged little goat tracks through dry streams and over shattered hills, making the march yet more strenuous and
difficult. Time and again the cry went up for water, food, or rest. We were given none of these things.

I kept myself alive with Psalms and prayers, reciting “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…he makes me to lie down in pastures green…beside the still waters he leads me…though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death…Lord, I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, yet I no evil fear…no evil fear…no evil fear…”

Over and over and over again, I spoke these words and the rhythm of their speaking became a litany of life to me. For, as long as I could say them, I knew I would live—at least to the end of the Psalm.

The searing, relentless heat and lack of water began to claw at our numbers. All around me men collapsed and fell, and as the eternal day wore on and on with no end in sight, I began to regard these as the lucky ones.

Mumbling my Psalm, I moved in and out of dreams. I saw Padraig walking before me, and tried to hail him, but my throat was so dry I could not make a sound. When I looked again, it was just another captive crusader. I saw my father, Murdo, sitting on a rock beside the trail. He shook his head in pity as I passed, and I wanted to speak to him, to tell him how sorry I was to leave home without telling him, but he melted into the empty air before I could find voice to speak the words.

I smelled the clean salt air of the sea back home. I smelled the water, and heard the restless sea waves slapping the rocks and tumbling the smooth stones on the shingle. I heard the shrill keen of the seabirds wheeling in the bold blue cloud-dazzled sky—a sky never seen in the desert wilderness of the Holy Land.

The scents and sounds caused me to imagine the faces of those I loved, and I heard the babble of their voices filling my ears. I tried to make out what they said, but in their joy at having me among them once more they spoke over one another so that I could not understand them.

Holding up my hands, I made to speak and forced out a ragged croak, and this made them excited. They rushed to
me and I was pulled this way and that, and I realized they were dragging me down to the sea. Stiff-legged, I tried to resist. My strength was gone and I was shoved down to the water.

I felt the blessed wetness lapping around my feet and legs; I heard others splashing in behind me, and turned to see the dusty faces of my fellow pilgrims floundering into the sea. How, I wondered, had they come to be in Scotland? Had they followed me there? Had we walked all the way?

And then people began throwing water over me. The cold shock restored me to my mind. Water! I sank down to my knees and began scooping it up in my hands, throwing it into my mouth and gulping it down, choking on it, and gulping down more.

The water revived me. I raised my eyes and looked around. Gone the cold ocean bay, and gone the prosperous holding snug amongst the dazzling green hills. Before me was a sunbaked settlement shaded by a few scruffy trees and forlorn palms on the bare earth banks of a muddy, but very real lake. The people there were not my beloved friends and family, but Muhammedan shepherds. My heart writhed within me as the dull realization seeped into my sun-dazed awareness: I was alive still, and far, far from home.

We stayed there that night. Revived by the water, and blessed with a moment's respite from the day's heat as evening drew near, the captives began to appraise their chances of survival. And they began to talk.

I soon learned what had happened after Padraig, Roupen, and I had fled Antioch. Commander Renaud had not allowed the Templar garrison to be used to aid Prince Bohemond's ruinous folly. In defiance of the prince, he had refused to send the Poor Soldiers of Christ into battle against other Christians. Opinion among the captives divided sharply over whether this was good or bad.

“If the Templars had been with us, by Christ,” one soldier swore, “we would not have been defeated.”

“That just shows how stupid you are, Thomas Villery,” growled the man next to him. “If the Templars had been there they would have been killed along with all the rest.”

“Yes,” agreed another, “it is for the best. At least this way we have a hope of rescue.”

“What makes you think anyone will rescue us? No one cares,” concluded another gloomily. His head sank onto his chest. “God has given us over to destruction. His hand is against us. We are dead men—each and every one of us. There is no hope.”

“Has the turd turned philosopher now?” scoffed the soldier called Thomas. “When the garrison learns that Bohemond's army has been captured, they will ride at once to the rescue.”