Eagle (6 page)

‘Good.’

‘And who is this handsome knight that you have brought with you, Reynald?’ Eleanor asked. John fixed his gaze on the floor.

‘May I present John the Saxon?’

‘The knight who bested the Saracen captive today?’ Eleanor asked.

‘The same, my lady.’

‘You are far from home, John,’ Louis noted. ‘Tell me, how does a Saxon come to be in my service?’

John swallowed. ‘You—you fight for God, my lord. In serving you, I serve Him.’

Louis smiled. ‘I’m sure. And I’m sure you have no great love for your Norman king, either.’ Louis dismissed John with a wave of his hand and turned to speak to one of his courtiers. Reynald grabbed John by the elbow and led him to the side.

‘He spoke to you, a great honour,’ Reynald whispered. ‘The council is about to begin. The proceedings are in Latin. They will mean nothing to you.’

‘I speak Latin, my lord.’

Reynald arched an eyebrow. ‘You are full of surprises, Saxon. Very well. Wait in the back behind those columns. Say nothing and keep out of sight.’

John slipped into the shadows of the side aisle and took up a position at the end of the hall furthest from King Baldwin’s throne. He watched as a wrinkled, bald priest in white robes embroidered with gold walked to the centre of the hall and slammed the butt of his staff against the floor three times. ‘This council is now in session!’ he declared in Latin. He left the floor, rejoining the other religious men, amongst whom John noticed William of Tyre, the young priest he had met at the fountain on his first day in Acre.

King Baldwin spoke next. ‘Welcome knights, lords, men of God, kings and queens. You all know why this council has been called. A second crusade has come to our kingdom, led by valiant King Conrad and brave King Louis. Some say the object of this crusade should be the great city of Aleppo. Others wish to attack Damascus. Tonight, we shall decide.’ He paused and licked his lips. ‘I will now hear arguments.’

Conrad, a stocky, grey-haired German, rose to speak, but
before he had said a word, a voice whispered in John’s ear. ‘I know you.’ John spun about to find himself face to face with a blond boy, perhaps three years younger than himself. The boy had pale blue eyes and an aquiline nose. ‘You’re the brave one, the knight who took off his armour before fighting the Saracen captive. I watched from the wall.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Amalric.’ The boy leaned close and dropped his voice even lower. ‘You know that the man you killed was no spy?’

‘What do you mean? Lord Reynald said he captured those men spying on our forces. He said they were Unur’s men.’

Amalric burst into sudden laughter, and John glanced about to see if anybody had noticed. Amalric’s mirth faded as quickly as it had come. ‘Palace rumour says differently. I heard that your Lord Reynald raided a small village this morning, a village within the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He slaughtered everyone – men, women and children – and took those four “spies” as captives.’

‘But why?’

Amalric nodded towards the hall, where the handsome Raymond of Antioch had taken the floor. ‘You will see.’

‘Conrad says that we must march on Damascus,’ Raymond began. ‘Damascus is rich, as we all know. It sits on the trade route from the east to the Mediterranean, and both its markets and its coffers are always full. It is a great prize, but we must not be blinded by greed.’ There were cries of protest from Conrad’s and Louis’ men. Raymond continued, shouting over them. ‘Unur, the emir of Damascus, is our ally by treaty. He fears the growing power of Nur ad-Din in Aleppo, as should we. Do not forget that it was Nur ad-Din who led the army that conquered Edessa, and that Edessa’s fall is the very reason for this crusade. Each year, Nur ad-Din brings more cities under his control. His rise threatens us all – Tripoli, Acre, Jerusalem. Our kingdom survives only because the Saracens are divided—’

‘Not so!’ the Grand Master of the Templars called. He was a lean man, with short dark hair. ‘God protects us!’

‘Is that why you have spent God’s silver expanding your holdings and building fortresses, Everard, instead of spending it on the calling of your order – protecting pilgrims to the Holy Land?’

Everard flushed crimson. ‘How dare you? We built those castles to better protect God’s children!’

‘If you truly wish to protect His children, then you will do as I say!’ Raymond shouted back, struggling now to be heard over the clamour of the Templar knights and the German king Conrad’s men. ‘If we attack Damascus, then we will force Emir Unur to join with Nur ad-Din. We will be sewing the seeds of our own destruction!’ Raymond’s men stomped their feet in approval.

King Louis stood and waited for the rumbling to subside. ‘You speak of Unur as a great ally, a friend. You say he is bound to us by treaty. And yet, this very morning his spies were found outside our walls! This is not the act of a friend. Unur has pissed all over your precious treaty!’ Chaos erupted as Raymond’s men yelled out in protest, and Louis’s men shouted back. Louis raised his hand, calling for silence. ‘We would be fools to trust this godless heathen. If we march north on Aleppo, then what is to stop him from betraying us and attacking Jerusalem while we are gone?’

‘Hear, hear!’ Louis’ men were seconded by Conrad’s nobles and the Templars.

‘See!’ Amalric whispered to John.

John nodded. The ‘spies’ were a ploy to convince the council to move on Damascus. Reynald had held the tournament to eliminate the only witnesses. ‘How do you know these things?’ he demanded. ‘Who are you?’

Amalric placed a finger to his lips. ‘
Shhhh.
’ He nodded back  towards the council floor. ‘There’s more. Watch King Baldwin.’

Baldwin was shifting nervously on his throne while Raymond concluded: ‘If we attack Aleppo, we can crush Nur ad-Din
before he grows too powerful. But if we attack Damascus, we will force our enemies to join together.’

‘Then we can defeat them all at once!’ Conrad declared, and the assembled knights roared their approval.

Raymond turned from the German king in disgust. ‘What say you, Queen Melisende?’

The hall quieted. ‘This crusade was called to avenge the loss of Edessa,’ she said, her sharp voice filling the hall. ‘Taking Aleppo will stop Nur ad-Din and allow us to reclaim Edessa. I say we strike there.’

‘I say differently,’ King Baldwin declared. Melisende sat forward, clearly surprised. ‘Aleppo is far. Attacking it will leave our kingdom vulnerable. After today’s incident with Unur’s spies, I do not believe we can take such a risk. Damascus is close and rich. Once we take it, then we will have wealth enough to hire all the men we need. We will be able to take Aleppo at our leisure.’

‘You speak out of turn, Son,’ Melisende reprimanded.

Baldwin hesitated, his tongue flicking over his lips. He looked to King Louis, then to Reynald, who nodded encouragement. Baldwin swallowed and spoke: ‘No, mother. I am the King. It shall be as I say.’

‘To Damascus!’ King Louis shouted.

His cry was echoed throughout the hall. ‘
Damascus
!
Damascus
!’

‘No! No! No!’ Raymond shouted, his face red. ‘You damned greedy bastards! If you move on Damascus, then you will do so without me!’ He looked to Baldwin. ‘Think well on that, King.’

All eyes turned to Baldwin. He said only one word. ‘Damascus.’ The hall exploded into confusion as half the men present roared their approval, the other half their anger. Fights broke out on the floor between Raymond’s and Louis’s men. In the confusion, Raymond stormed from the hall. John noted that Eleanor began to rise to follow him, but Louis grabbed her arm, holding her down.

Baldwin also left, striding down the middle of the hall. He
stopped near the exit and turned to Amalric. ‘Come, Brother. We have work to do.’

Giving John a wink, Amalric followed Baldwin from the hall.

Shocked, John stood staring after the boy until Reynald came up and clapped him on the back. ‘Let’s get back to camp,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to pack for Damascus.’

‘Damascus,’ John whispered. Back in England, men returned from the first crusade had spoken of it as a fabulous city, second only to Jerusalem. ‘It will be a great victory for God.’

Reynald grinned. ‘Yes. And it will make us rich!’

JULY 1148: DAMASCUS

Y
usuf buckled his new sword belt tight about his waist and drew the curved blade, marvelling at its beauty. It had been made not far from the room where he now stood, in the famed forges of Damascus, and the bright steel was covered with interlacing patterns of darker grey. Yusuf tested the blade with his thumb and winced as the razor-sharp edge drew a thin trickle of blood. He carefully sheathed the sword, then pulled on the conical helmet that his father had given him. It was too large: only his ears kept the hard iron from sinking down over his eyes. Yusuf stepped in front of the polished bronze mirror in his room and frowned. The slate-grey chainmail that he wore was too long, covering his hands and hanging well below his knees, and the tip of the sword hanging from his waist almost touched the ground.

Turan entered behind Yusuf. His new armour was a perfect fit. ‘You look like a scarecrow,’ Turan smirked, and he slapped Yusuf on the back of the head so that his helmet slid down over his eyes.

Ayub stepped into the doorway. ‘You look a true warrior, Turan.’ Yusuf pushed up his helmet to see Turan grinning proudly. Ayub looked at Yusuf and frowned.

‘When will we fight the Christians, Father?’ Turan asked.

‘Inshallah, you will not have to fight, not if Emir Unur finally acknowledges Nur ad-Din as his overlord in return for aid
against the Christians. I only pray that Nur ad-Din arrives before the Franks.’

‘If Nur ad-Din becomes Unur’s overlord, will he force the emir to return Baalbek to you?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Perhaps. In time, I might even be given something more.’ Ayub cracked a rare smile. ‘But that is for the future. Now, we must look to save ourselves. The Franks are many, and if Nur ad-Din does not arrive in time, the city may fall. You must be prepared to fight, to the death if needs be. I will not have my sons taken as slaves.’

Turan drew his sword and slashed it from side to side. ‘I will kill any Frank who dares stand before me.’

Ayub nodded. ‘If you must fight, then I am certain you will bring honour to our family. Now come. It is time that you both begin your education as warriors. I will show you how the walls are to be defended.’

Yusuf followed his father and Turan out into the narrow street that ran in front of their home. They turned right, Abaan and four other mamluks marching around them as an escort. Ayub nodded towards a man hammering up boards to cover the windows and doors of his home. ‘Little good it will do him if the Franks take the city.’

They reached the city’s main street, which was crowded with men and women lugging their possessions in heavy sacks, fleeing east, away from the Christians. A long train of camels passed, each bearing two heavy chests. The caravan was surrounded by heavily armed guards.

‘Moneychangers,’ Ayub spat. ‘Always the first to flee. And taking good men with them.’ Once the camels had passed, Ayub turned towards the city’s eastern wall. It was squat – as thick as it was tall – and built of brown bricks made from clay dredged from the river that flowed through Damascus. It did not look very imposing. Yusuf followed his father up a ramp to the top of the wall beside the Bab Tuma, the city’s eastern gate. From where he stood, Yusuf could see only a dozen troops, staggered along the wall at wide intervals.

‘Where are the emir’s men?’ he asked.

‘To the north and west,’ Ayub replied. ‘The walls are at their weakest here, but the desert offers its own protection.’ He gestured past the wall to the dry, cracked earth that stretched away to the horizon. ‘No army can last long out there.’

Ayub led them north. As they walked, the wall rose higher beneath them and became more and more crowded with mamluk soldiers. They passed through the upper rooms of the Gate of Peace, where a huge vat of oil sat over a smouldering fire, ready to be poured on any attackers who came too close to the gate. As they neared the Gate of Paradise, the empty waste beyond the wall gave way to fields, then to the lush orchards of Damascus. They continued to the western gate, the Bab al-Jabiya, where they paused to watch the mamluk warriors pouring out of the city and heading into the orchards.

‘The orchards are the key to Damascus,’ Ayub told them. ‘Always remember: strength of numbers, bravery and steel are important, but an army cannot survive without food and water. Whoever controls the orchards controls the lifeblood of the city. The emir will concentrate his forces there. If they are taken, his men will fall back to the walls. They might hold them for several months. But eventually the city will run short of food and it will fall.’

Yusuf gazed over the orchards, which ran for miles towards the rocky foothills of the nearby mountains. It was from these that the Franks would come. Yusuf was looking away when he saw something out of the corner of his eye – the flash of the sun off steel. There it was again. Squinting against the bright morning light, he could just make out tiny figures moving over the hills, headed for Damascus. ‘
Look
!’ he said, pointing.

‘The Franks,’ Ayub whispered. A moment later one of the sentries in the nearby tower caught site of the enemy, and a trumpet blast shattered the air, followed by another, then another. ‘Allah protect us. They are here.’

John gritted his teeth against the pain in his back and legs as he trudged up the steep hill. His heavy pack dug into his shoulders, his armour chafed against his sides, and his feet were swollen after days on the long march from Acre. He reached a flat spot and sighed in relief as he stepped aside and dropped his pack, letting the other soldiers plod past. He looked back at the long line of men. The mounted knights had mostly passed, leaving the foot-soldiers to slog on, bent under their heavy packs, their spears held aloft and bobbing up and down as they walked. Behind them came a ragged band of pilgrims, with no armour and lightly armed with bows, spears or simple wooden staffs. They had come to pray in Damascus after the Christian victory, but they would fight if necessary. John turned his gaze to the sun, hazy brown through the thick cloud of dust kicked up by the army. Grit was everywhere, in John’s nose, his eyes, his mouth. He unstopped his waterskin and held it to his lips, but it was empty. ‘’Sblood,’ he spat. Even his spit was brown.