Doctor Who and the Crusaders (5 page)

‘Thatcher,’ said Ben Daheer, with a shake of his plump little face, ‘these clothes you bring me are difficult to sell.’

The soldier pushed his sullen face close to the shop-owner’s, and bared his yellow teeth unpleasantly.

‘I took a chance fetching these things,’ he grated. ‘There’s twice as much as I brought last time. Yet you offer me half as much!’

‘If you are not satisfied, take the clothes back.’

‘You know I can’t do that, you fat villain!’

Ben Daheer pretended not to hear the insult. He opened his pouch at his waist and counted out a few coins into Thatcher’s greedy hands.

‘That’s all they’re worth to me. Complain to the people you stole the clothes from.’

The two men stared at each other, the one angry, the other calm. Then Thatcher slouched away, muttering under his breath. Ben Daheer turned to go inside his shop with the clothes under his arm and spotted the Doctor.

‘Ah! Am I not looked upon with favour,’ he breathed, his fat little body shaking with pleasure. ‘Of course you are from Pisa, My Lord?’

The Doctor peered at Ben Daheer, with a slight smile on his face.

‘No.’

‘Genoa, then?’

‘I know the place.’

‘Ah, you traders from Venice are cautious.’

‘I am not Venetian. And I am not a trader.’

Ben Daheer bowed as low as the clothes under his arm and his considerable girth allowed him.

‘Your pardon, My Lord, the richness of your cloak is hidden by the darkness.’

‘You have some fine materials here,’ murmured the Doctor.

‘The finest in Jaffa, My Lord.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

Ben Daheer laid a persuasive hand on the Doctor’s arm and urged him inside the shop, laying down the bundle of stolen clothes he had bought on a table just inside the entrance.

‘My Lord,’ he said earnestly, ‘a man with nine sons and two
daughters has too many mouths to feed to tell lies. Examine my goods. Baghdad, Basrah, Persia. Silk, satin, cloths of all kinds and all colours.’

The Doctor looked about him keenly and noticed the figure of a tall, well-dressed man examining a roll of silk. The man had an arrogance about him, a proud set to his head, and a pair of black eyes which gave the Doctor a cursory glance, and then dismissed him.

‘Serve your other client,’ murmured the Doctor, ‘and I will search for what I want.’

Ben Daheer bowed and moved away. The Doctor waited until both backs were turned to him, then bent down on his knees and scuttled under the table beside the door, pulling and arranging a piece of hanging cloth to hide him from view.

‘Now, honourable master, how may I serve you,’ said Ben Daheer, rubbing his hands together. The taller man turned from his contemplation of a bale of particularly fine silk, his black eyes piercing into those of the fat little shop-owner.

‘I am Luigi Ferrigo, merchant of Genoa. I am in Jaffa to buy and sell.’

Ben Daheer turned away thoughtfully, assessing the meaning of the words. He did not want to lose a potential customer, but he didn’t want to encourage a salesman. As if divining his thoughts, the Genoese laughed lightly.

‘I have it in my mind to buy from you, Ben Daheer. I like the quality of your goods. I can dispose of your entire stock of cloth in Genoa, ten times over.’

Ben Daheer was so excited, Ferrigo so intent, that neither of them noticed the hand which crept out from beneath a small table beside the entrance. The hand reached up as far as it could to the clothes heaped upon the table top, fingering and sampling until it came into contact with a cloth it liked. With a swift jerk the hand pulled and some clothes disappeared.

‘My Lord, this is exhilarating news,’ cried Ben Daheer, almost wriggling with delight.

‘However,’ interrupted the Genoese seriously, ‘one thing stands in our way.’

The shopkeeper was so attracted to the use of the word ‘our’, with its suggestion of partnership and future riches, that he gripped hold of Ferrigo’s sleeve urgently.

‘Nothing is too difficult. How can I help?’

The other man detached the hand from his sleeve gently and moved a little into the shadows. Ben Daheer followed eagerly, anxious to close what seemed to him to be a wonderful business deal. Again, neither of the men noticed the hand appearing and disappearing rapidly, or realized that the bundle of clothes recently acquired by Ben Daheer was rapidly diminishing. Had either of them possessed ultra-keen hearing, they might just have detected a soft chuckle
emanating from beneath the little table by the doorway. But, fortunately for the Doctor, they were each too heavily engaged in their business talk, and the wily old man, satisfied now with the clothes he had acquired, was busily wrapping them around his body underneath his cloak.

‘I must talk with the Sultan,’ said Ferrigo, after a pause. Ben Daheer stared at him in bewilderment.

‘The Sultan?’

‘Saladin.’

Ben Daheer stepped back, his face betraying nervousness, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side. He looked around him nervously.

‘Hush, I implore you,’ he stuttered. ‘Do you not realize that his enemies are everywhere in Jaffa? To talk of the Sultan so openly would bring ruin on both of us. Why, the English King’s palace is no more than a short step from here…’

‘And a glittering fortune is near your hands,’ interposed Ferrigo. ‘I need a horse and a guide. And an assurance I may pass through to the Sultan without harm to my person or my possessions.’

‘My Lord, it is impossible. I am afraid…’

Luigi Ferrigo turned and walked towards the doorway.

‘Arrange for me to travel to see the Sultan and I shall make you a rich man. I shall return in one hour for your answer, Ben Daheer.’

Ben Daheer ran after the Genoese, following him out a little way into the street, confused and bewildered by the rapidity of the conversation. Avarice quarrelled with fear and all of the little shopkeeper’s emotions showed on his face as he turned back into his shop again, his brain working overtime, testing this idea, trying this one, abandoning another, until his head ached. He was so busy wondering and worrying that he cannoned into the Doctor and, with a little squeal of fear,
nearly fell to his knees, afraid that his recent conversation had been overheard.

‘Well, my friend,’ smiled the Doctor, ‘I fear I do not find quite what I want to buy.’

‘Have you been here all this time?’ stammered Ben Daheer.

‘Yes, examining this and that. Did you make a sale to your other customer? I did not hear what passed between you.’

Ben Daheer’s body stopped quivering and he even managed a half-smile.

‘We may do business, he and I. I am sorry nothing pleases you here.’

‘Ah, but I am pleased. And I have to thank you very much.’

Ben Daheer looked at the Doctor suspiciously.

‘Thank me? What for?’

‘For being here, my friend. When you were most needed. And one day I shall find a way to reward you.’

He turned and walked out of the shop, leaving Ben Daheer with his temptation and his fear.

The story of how the Doctor acquired clothes for himself, Ian and Vicki, and what had transpired between the shopkeeper and the mysterious Genoese merchant enlivened the difficult affair of transporting the wounded knight, Sir William de Tornebu, from the little forest to Jaffa. The Doctor found, on his return to his two friends, that Ian had constructed a rough stretcher of branches and that Vicki had patiently bathed and dressed the knight’s shoulder wound, after having helped Ian to draw the arrow. He learned that the knight had suffered a slight fever, recovered from it and was now able to sleep peacefully, although his waking moments were so few and far between it gave them some concern. The Doctor owed his title more to science than medicine but was, nevertheless, able to satisfy himself that the wounded man was on the road to
recovery and could withstand the uncomfortable journey to Jaffa.

Their reception there was immediate and popular. Dressed in the clothes – which the Doctor insisted he had only ‘borrowed’ – from Ben Daheer’s shop, Ian now wore a simple hunting habit, soft leather breeches and calf-length boots, and a russet-coloured tunic belted at the waist. The Doctor wore a long robe of quiet design, with a rather ornate collar fastened high on the neck and covering his shoulders. Vicki was dressed as a page, with long, dark-blue tights and pointed ankle-high shoes, an extremely smart long-sleeve yellow vest and, over it, a thigh-length grey tunic with short puffed sleeves. Ian was convinced that as soon as they came in sight of the people of Jaffa they would be pointed at, seized as spies or impostors and pushed into the nearest dungeon to await an early death, but he soon found out that there were many others dressed in similar fashion and that, rather than being rushed off to prison, the three of them were hailed by soldiers and civilians alike as heroes for bringing in a wounded knight, saving him from wandering bands of thieves or discovery by roaming Saracen patrols.

The Doctor immediately demanded to be taken before King Richard, and found, as he guessed he would, an immediate way through the various courtiers and advisers, where, in any ordinary event, the three of them might have kicked their heels in frustration for days.

It was some five hours since the fight in the wood and they were shown into a lofty stone room in Richard’s headquarters to find him suffering the rather ungentle hands of a physician, who was attempting to clean a deep cut on the King’s forehead. He sat in his chair, wincing as he listened to the three strangers being introduced by their guide, the Earl of Leicester. Leicester had a notable name as a fighting
man, having on many occasions stood by Richard’s side and helped him fight through small armies of the enemy. He was a compact, tough warrior, averse to fancy speeches and embroidered compliments. He told the King simply that three heroes deserved his attention, indicated to servants to bring in the body of the wounded knight on the rough stretcher, bowed and withdrew.

Richard ran his eyes over the Doctor and his two companions and pushed himself away from his chair.

‘Enough, enough,’ he growled, wiping the water from his face. The physician bowed and hurried away and the King walked over to the stretcher and stared down at Sir William de Tornebu, who was now awake.

‘Forgive me for not rising, Sire,’ he whispered.

‘Rest yourself. Tell me, if you can summon up the strength, what happened in the wood? A blow on the head sent me staggering into the bushes. I came to my senses and crawled away, lucky to find a riderless horse, too dazed to know who I was or where, until the walls of Jaffa cleared the mist from my mind.’

De Tornebu related the events of the ambush and how Sir William des Preaux had gallantly declared himself as the King in order that Richard might be given time to escape.

‘And I was too injured to know much more,’ he continued, ‘except that these kindly people saved my life and brought me here.’ De Tornebu drifted off into sleep again.

The King nodded and turned to walk back to his throne.

‘Good friends indeed. We thank you.’

The Doctor bowed slightly as the King seated himself.

‘The brothers L’Etable dead,’ murmured the King, ‘and de Marun. Sir William des Preaux taken. What have I left from my foolish hunting sortie but one wounded friend and a sore head?’

The Doctor stepped forward.

‘One small thing remains yours, Sire,’ he remarked, opening a pouch at his belt and drawing out the jewel-encrusted golden belt. Richard took it from him and weighed it in his hand thoughtfully.

‘You are honest as well as brave, and again we thank you. But I’d change this for de Marun and the others.’

He suddenly threw the belt angrily away from him and it flew, sparkling and flashing through the air, skidded along the stone floor and lay, half hidden, in the fresh rushes that carpeted the room.

‘Friends cut down about my ears, or stolen! My armies roust about and clutter up the streets of Jaffa with the garbage of their vices. And an hour ago I learn that John, my brother, finds a thirst for power in England; drinking great draughts of it, although it is not his to take. He’s planning to usurp my throne, and so trades with my enemy, Philip of France! A tragedy of fortunes and I’m too much beset by them. A curse on this day! A thousand curses!’

Richard hammered his fist on his knee in fury and turned his head aside. The Doctor drew the others away slightly.

‘We must ask him about Barbara,’ Ian said.

‘I’m not sure this is the right time,’ murmured the Doctor. ‘Oughtn’t we to wait until he’s in a better mood, my boy?’

‘We can’t wait any longer. This was your idea, Doctor, to get the King to help us.’

The Doctor shrugged and Ian moved to the silent man on his throne, alone with his troubles. He looked up as Ian bowed, his face clearing slightly.

‘Sire, there were four of us in that wood. Our other companion, a lady, was stolen by the Saracens. We assume she was held prisoner like Sir William des Preaux, destined for Saladin’s court.’

Richard nodded slowly as he listened, but it was obvious to Ian that his thoughts were elsewhere.

‘I am most sorry,’ he said vaguely, ‘but I must ask you not to bother me with such things now.’