Eagle (8 page)

‘Turan and Yusuf,’ Ayub affirmed. The two boys approached and bowed low.

‘Fine young men,’ Unur approved. ‘Sit here, beside me. Eat. Now that you have arrived, we shall have entertainment. Afterwards, we shall talk.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Bring the girls!’

Yusuf and Turan were directed to cushions just to the left of the emir’s dais. Their father took his place on the emir’s right. No sooner had they sat down than four young women entered wearing veils and loose, diaphanous silk robes that shifted as they walked, revealing glimpses of firm breasts and long, golden-brown legs. A drummer had entered behind them, and at the first sound of his drum the girls began to dance, circling slowly to the beat. Their arms and feet traced intricate patterns while their waists and hips swayed slowly side to side. One of the girls paused for a moment before Yusuf, fixing him with dark eyes ringed with kohl. Yusuf blushed and looked away towards his father.

Ayub had begun to eat, scooping up stew with a piece of flatbread. Yusuf followed his example, tearing off a piece of the warm bread and using it to scoop up a delicious mouthful of chickpeas, onions and roast lamb. He noticed that Turan had not touched his food. His eyes were fixed on the dancers. Yusuf looked back to the girls, who were each bending forward now, allowing the men to see the curves of their breasts. He shrugged and scooped up more of the lamb. He could not understand his brother’s fascination.

The drum began to beat faster, and the dancers moved in time, spinning and leaping. Suddenly they stopped circling and fell to their knees. They shook their chests, then leaned backwards so that the back of their heads touched the floor. Turan was transfixed, his mouth hanging open. Yusuf looked over and saw that his father, too, had stopped eating to watch. The dancers lifted their hips off the floor slowly, then faster and faster, moving to the ever more rapid beat. They rolled over, pushed themselves to their feet and began circling again. They
were now a blur of seductive curves and firm limbs. Then, with a final crescendo, the drum fell silent and the dancers fell to the floor, kneeling motionless with their foreheads touching the ground. Only their heaving sides betrayed the recent exertions.

Emir Unur rose from his dais and stepped down amongst the dancers. He walked slowly around the edge of the circle, then touched the shoulder of the dancer opposite the dais. She rose and left the room, head held high.

‘Lucky bastard,’ Turan murmured, just loudly enough for Yusuf to hear him.

Unur returned to his seat and clapped his hands. The other women left, followed by the drummer. The doors slammed shut behind them. ‘Lovely, are they not?’ Unur said with a wink towards Yusuf and Turan. ‘Even in trying times like these, we should not ignore life’s simple pleasures. Who knows when they will be taken from us?’ He turned towards Ayub. ‘I trust you saw the Franks arrive?’

‘I did. My sons and I stood on the walls for much of the day.’

‘And how do you rate our chances, wise Ayub?’

‘The Franks are many, and now that they have taken the orchards, the city will run short of food. Forgive my impertinence, Emir, but I do not believe you will be able to hold the walls for long. You need Nur ad-Din’s help.’

Unur frowned. ‘I fear that if I call on your lord to drive off the Franks, then I will only replace one master with another.’

‘Perhaps, but a Muslim master, one who will leave you your throne and not pillage your city. All you have to do is acknowledge his lordship and promise to send troops when he calls for them. Is that so much?’

‘
Hmph
,’ Unur grunted. He looked around the circle at his generals. ‘Are you in agreement with Ayub?’ One by one, the generals nodded. Unur sighed. ‘So be it. Write to your master, Ayub, and tell him to send his army. But warn him that he must hurry if he wishes to win me as his vassal, for I plan to do better
than merely hold the city until he arrives.’ He turned to face Turan. ‘Tell me, young Turan. What would you do in order to drive the Franks away from our city?’

‘I would strike now, before they dig in,’ Turan replied. ‘I would send men out from the eastern gate to circle behind the Franks.’ Turan used his right hand to show the movement of the soldiers. ‘And then I would attack from both sides.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The Franks will be crushed!’

‘A bold manoeuvre,’ Unur mused. Turan grinned. ‘Although one which would leave us with too few men to defend the walls, and which would split our army in order to attack a defensive position. If the Franks learned of our men leaving by the east gate, then they would attack and the city might well be lost.’ Turan blushed. Unur turned his penetrating gaze upon Yusuf. ‘What of you, young man? What would you do?’

Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘So long as the Franks hold the orchards, we are weak. They have food and water enough to last for months, while our supplies will grow smaller every day. We must drive them from the orchards at any cost.’

‘Agreed, but how? As I told your brother, we cannot send enough men to drive them out without leaving our walls vulnerable.’

Yusuf’s forehead creased as he considered the problem. ‘Perhaps there is another way.’

‘Indeed?’

Yusuf lowered his eyes. ‘But there is no honour in it. It is best forgotten.’

‘Speak, young Yusuf,’ Unur insisted. ‘I wish to hear this idea of yours.’

Yusuf looked past Unur to his father, who nodded. ‘If the Franks cannot be driven out, then perhaps they can be lured,’ Yusuf suggested. ‘Aleppo is a better military target than Damascus. The Franks must have come here because they seek riches. If gold is what they have come for, then give it to them. Pay them to leave the orchards.’

‘That is a coward’s answer,’ Turan muttered. Several of the men in the room nodded their agreement.

‘Forgive me.’ Yusuf hung his head. ‘I should not have spoken.’

‘No, it was a wise answer,’ Unur said. He turned towards Yusuf’s father. ‘You have raised clever sons, Ayub. They do you great honour.’ Ayub inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘Now I must bid you and your sons goodnight so that I may speak with my generals. We have much to discuss.’

The Frankish camp was set up at the edge of the orchard, near the river. John’s troop erected their tents in a clearing and dined on dark brown pods that they shook from the trees. The flesh was chewy but filling, with an earthy taste not unlike the black bread that John had grown up eating. His belly full, he removed his chainmail and crawled into his tent, where he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

He dreamt of his home in Northumbria, of a crisp autumn day, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. He was walking through a green field of knee-high oats, their stalks rippling in a gentle breeze. He crossed the field towards his family manor, a rectangular building of grey stone, surrounded by a broad moat. His father stood in the doorway, waving to him. But something was wrong. As John approached, his father fell to his knees, blood running from his mouth. Behind him, John’s brother appeared. Loud screams echoed from within the manor.

John awoke with a start, but the screaming did not stop. Cries of agony came from outside his tent, joined now by shouts of alarm. John sat up just as a spear ripped through the side of his tent, plunging into the ground where he had lain only a moment before. He grabbed his sword and rushed outside, wearing only his linen tunic. The camp was overrun with ghostly figures, barely visible in the darkness – Saracens in dark armour, stabbing at the tents with their spears. One of the attackers saw
John. With a cry, the Saracen charged, his spear pointed at John’s chest.

John sidestepped the spear, knocking the point aside with his sword, and then stuck out his foot, tripping the Saracen as he charged past. He hacked down, finishing the man, then looked up just in time to twist out of the way of another spear thrust, which ripped through his tunic. John grabbed the shaft and pulled his attacker to him, impaling the Saracen on his sword. As he pulled his blade free, John looked about for another foe, but he saw only other Christians, some in armour, some still in their tunics. The Saracens were fleeing as quickly as they had come, disappearing back into the dark trees.

‘Come on!’ John shouted and charged into the trees, weaving between the closely set trunks. He caught glimpses of the Saracens just ahead, and he could hear his own men crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He had not gone far when he heard an arrow whiz past. Another embedded itself in the tree beside him. John took shelter behind a thick tree trunk as the air filled with the buzz of arrows. Around him, the night echoed with cries of pain and curses in French and German.

The arrows stopped and John continued his pursuit. He left the trees and crashed through a row of grapevines. He peered into the dark shadows ahead, but could see neither friend nor foe in the thick darkness, although he could hear the other Christians around him. Then he caught a flash of movement off to his left and headed that way, entering another stand of trees. As he pushed on, the sounds around him faded.

John squeezed between two trees and found himself at the edge of a clearing where two men stood talking. Instinctively, John stepped back into the shadows. The man facing John was a Saracen in a white turban and chainmail. The other had his back to John. ‘It shall be as you say,’ he was saying. The man turned. It was Reynald.

John caught a flash of steel out of the corner of his eye and
ducked just in time to avoid being decapitated. He turned to find himself face to face with Ernaut. ‘Ernaut! It’s me, John!’

Ernaut stepped back and lowered his sword. ‘Sorry, Saxon. I thought you were one of them. It’s damn near impossible to see out here.’

‘Saxon!’ It was Reynald, marching across the clearing towards them. The Saracen was gone. Had John imagined him? Reynald grabbed John’s tunic and pulled him close. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was chasing the Saracens.’

Reynald’s eyes narrowed as he examined John; then he released him. ‘Very well. Since you are here, come with me. I must meet with the other leaders to discuss our response to this attack. Ernaut, you get back to camp and look after the men.’

John fell in behind Reynald. As he walked he looked back to catch a glimpse of Ernaut marching into the darkness, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder.

John and Reynald emerged from a dense grove of apple trees into a clearing that was almost entirely filled by a huge tent. From inside, John could hear the heated voices of many men. At the entrance, Reynald paused and leaned close to John. ‘You are brave, Saxon. You will go far with my help. But if you cross me, you will regret it. Do you understand?’ John hesitated. What had he seen, anyway? He nodded, and Reynald clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good man.’

They entered the tent, and Reynald shouldered his way through the crowd to where King Louis stood with the German king Conrad and Baldwin, King of Jerusalem. John stayed at the edge of the crowd.

‘They came in through your section of the camp!’ King Conrad was shouting as he pointed at King Louis.

‘You’re the one who insisted that we camp here,’ Louis retorted. ‘There are hundreds of paths through the orchards. It
is impossible to guard every one of them. My men’s blood is on your hands!’

‘How dare you!’ Conrad roared

‘Enough! Enough!’ King Baldwin shouted. ‘This is just what our enemy hopes for. They wish to set us against one another. We must not let them. If you wish to blame someone, then blame me.’ He looked to both kings. Neither spoke. ‘Very well. We must fortify our position immediately. We will build walls to separate the orchards from the city, and we will post guards.’

‘Pardon me, King Baldwin, but is that wise?’ It was Reynald who spoke, and all eyes turned to him. ‘The orchards will be hard to hold, no matter what fortification we build. We will never be safe from these night-time raids so long as we stay here.’

‘What are you proposing?’ Conrad asked.

‘The walls are weaker on the eastern side of the city. I suggest we move our camp there.’

‘After we lost so many lives to take the orchards?’ King Louis asked. ‘And what will our men eat? The land to the east is desert.’

‘We will take supplies from the orchards. We only need enough for a few days. The Saracens do not expect an attack from the east. In less than a week, we will be feasting in the halls of the emir’s palace!’

‘It is too great a risk, Reynald,’ Louis said.

‘No,’ Conrad countered. ‘You should listen to your man. If moving east can bring the siege to an end sooner, then I am for it. I have been too long away from my kingdom already.’

‘What do you say, King Baldwin?’ Louis asked. ‘You know these lands better than any of us.’

‘It is true that the eastern walls are weaker,’ Baldwin began. ‘But moving our camp brings great risk. If we do not conquer the city swiftly, then we will run short of food. And retaking the orchards will be difficult, if not impossible.’ He looked
around the tent. ‘If it were left to me, I would stay and fortify our position here, but I am not the only king present. We shall vote. Those in favour of staying?’ Louis shouted his approval and was joined by a handful of men. ‘Those in favour of moving camp to the east?’ A deafening chorus of approval greeted Baldwin’s words. The choice was clear. ‘Tomorrow at dawn,’ Baldwin declared, ‘we break camp.’

On a blazing hot afternoon three days later, John sat in the shade of his tent, his stomach growling as he stared at the unappetizing piece of salted beef he held in his hands. The beef was as tough as leather, and one side was splotched with green. John sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He shook his waterskin and sighed. Only a couple of mouthfuls of water remained to wash down the salty, putrid meat. He was about to toss it aside when his stomach growled loudly. ‘By God, I’m hungry,’ he muttered to himself.

John glanced over his shoulder, beyond the rows of low tents and past the huge pavilion at the centre of camp that served as a church, to the bulky wall of Damascus, shimmering in the summer heat. After three days of bloody fighting, the wall still stood, and already the army was short of food and water. Moving east had taken them further from the river, and whenever men went to fill their waterskins, the Saracens rode out to drive them off. The fruit and vegetables from the orchards that had not been eaten had already spoiled in the sweltering July heat. This loathsome salted beef was all they had left. John rubbed the tough meat between his fingers, trying to remove as much of the mould as possible. Then, he tore off a piece with his teeth and chewed slowly.