The White Cross (25 page)

Al-Afdal grunts. A eunuch sets a chased silver bowl of scented rosewater before his father and the Sultan dips his greasy fingers. ‘The characters of the two men oppose each other,’ he continues, dabbing his hands on the towel provided. ‘They see the art of kingship differently. Add to this disputes over the territories they rule, and over one’s rejection of the other’s sister, and I’d expect them to be at each other’s throats before they even reach our shores.’

‘But they are both pledged to jihad, Prince of Believers. Neither could abandon the invasion without loss of face.’ Umar, at his master’s invitation leans across to rinse his hands in turn.

‘Abandon? No, my friend. But we know that they cannot sustain a campaign so far from home for more than two winters, three at most. They haven’t funds enough to feed them. Nor may their vassals leave their lands for longer. All things considered, I’d expect King Philippe, who has no appetite for war, to look for a good reason to return to France when Acre falls. So with God’s help, I would suggest we make sure that he finds one.’

In the act of passing a soft towel to Umar, the Sultan looks directly at his son, in time to catch him choke on a ripe fig. Al-Afdal’s shocked, incredulous. ‘When Acre falls? By light and fire that cannot be!’ he splutters. ‘The city cannot fall to unbelievers!’

He is already on his knees, but is detained. ‘Be still Ali and listen.’

The young man shrugs impotently, unwilling or unable to disguise his outrage. With both fists clenched he settles back upon the cushions.

‘We are in private, can speak plainly – and alas the city must surrender in the end, however we may strive to save it.’

‘It tempts ill-fortune, Father, even to consider failure.’

‘Yet we must be realistic. The Franks have been encamped outside the city walls for a full year, withstanding all assaults. We may surround them on the landward side. We may break through the siege by land or sea to re-provision Acre. But every month, more ships arrive with Christian reinforcements.’ The perceptive dark eyes beneath the turban engage his son’s and hold them. ‘If the kings do not come this year it will go hard with the al-Firinjah over winter. But by the spring we too will have lost half our army. And they will come, make no mistake, with engineers and siege machines and all their multitudes of knights. King Richard is a leader whose fame rests on his success at siege warfare, and thou mayst believe he will bring everything he needs to breach the city walls.’

‘But only if we let him, Father. What honour is there in defeat? How often hast thou told me that God loves those who fight His cause with zeal, and fight to win. Give me command. Allow me to take but two divisions of mamluks to meet their armies as they land; strike down the kings before they ever reach the city. Wilt thou not trust me Father? The way to kill a serpent is to cut off its head, and I say I’m the man to do it!’

With the balled fist of his right hand Al-Afdal punches his left palm. ‘Leaderless, without the loyalty they owe to kings, without pay from the royal coffers, is it not obvious what will happen? The Christian armies will disperse. They’ll melt like winter snow to leave us in possession of the city.’

The Sultan sighs and thinks how much his son has still to learn. ‘Thy bravest thoughts are beaded on one string, Ali. I told King Guy when he was at my mercy at the Horns of Hattin that kings should never slay each other. As I answer to The One True God, I tell thee that we need both kings alive. Thou speakest of serpent’s heads. But consider the Greek fable of the Hydra. From each of its nine heads the monster had the power to grow two more. A man could sever three necks, only to find six more sprouting from their stumps. When he dealt with those, twelve more appeared – and so would the Christians multiply if their campaign should end in grievance. Be sure that spilt blood never sleeps. The armies they would mobilise against us would be legion if we made martyrs of the Christian kings.’

Al-Afdal is still frowning, pimply face in hand. ‘But Acre’s only the beginning, Father. If we should spare the kings this time and Acre falls, how can we stop King Richard marching on al-Quds, the place he calls
Jerusalem
, to crown himself its king?’

‘By playing out a waiting game, Ali, to delay the fall of Acre for as long as we are able. By understanding there are more than two sides to a conflict and exploiting the kings’dislike of one another – to help the one decide he’s had enough of warfare, and convince the other that he cannot rule two kingdoms separated by an ocean – and by preserving Richard’s legend, to grant him enough success to send him home a hero, whilst weakening his army to the point that it lacks force or will to take al-Quds. In other words, my son, by using intellect, diplomacy and the minimum of violence.’

The Sultan’s words are measured. ‘Time is on our side. We have it in the East, the Westerners do not. So long as we defeat the al-Firinjah they’ll return. The wiser way will be to give them something we can spare. We may not allow them to besiege the Holy City of al-Quds. But – I say this for thine ears alone – it may still suit us to award them a remnant of their petty kingdom. Give them a handful of seaports which deal in any case with traders of all faiths. Give them a taste of victory and a puppet king. Give access to eastern trade routes, a safe passage to the holy places for their pilgrims – and let the dogs bark as they will, my son. Our caravan will pass them by.’

There is a further silence while the speaker pulls the silk tassel of a cushion through his fingers, contemplating the red embers in the brazier. ‘It’s held that a sound policy is like a strong tree, firmly rooted, yielding fruit in every season,’ he says reflectively. ‘Our policy must be to treat for lasting peace on our own terms and strive to make a better world for all who follow.’

‘Is it not written that he who mediates between men for a worthy purpose shall be the gainer by it.’ The pious Imam draws a look of irritation from the Sultan’s son. ‘Needless brutality is repugnant to The Lord of the Seven Heavens. I pray He will prolong thy life, Hakim.’

‘May Allah hear thy prayer.’ The Sultan smiles.

‘By the Lord of All Goodness, thy heart is as the ocean.’ The Imam casts his eyes up to a distant heaven, only to encounter the much closer goat-hair ceiling of the tent and cast them down again. ‘Thou wilt be praised, Sayyid, this day and to the end of time for thy fair judgement.’.

‘My Father, thy fame rests rather on thy victories,’ the disgruntled al-Afdal interrupts. ‘Thou hast fought all thy life and now is not the time to rest thy sword.’

‘I fear thou hast the right of it, Ali. That time is not yet with us, and for the present we must continue to delay the kings by force of arms,’ the Sultan adds with quiet regret. ‘God knows I’ve done my share of killing. But how powerful is a state whose people know only how to shed blood in the name of one faith or the other? All warfare is ugly, clumsy and destructive and evil comes of evil. Is it not possible that as Children of the Book we may still sink our differences and live in peace together?

‘
As Salaamu ‘alaikum wa rahmatullah.’
He touches his breast, his lips and brow. ‘That is God’s benediction, is it not? The blessing we bestow on one another when we part? Indeed we must defend al-Quds. But I believe that lasting peace will be achieved by patience and negotiation, and not by endless bloodshed. “
My words are the law,
” the Holy Prophet held, “
my actions are the way.”’

The words of Sultan Salahuddin Yusuf ibn Ayyub reveal a crucial difference between his view of justice and that of the King of England. A difference which in course of time will decide the outcome of the Kings’ Croisade.

CHAPTER SEVEN

They’re skating on the meads where I saw rows of coloured tents the day before the tournament – oh let’s think, it must be fourteen, sixteen months ago? Hard to believe that so much time has passed.

The children skate on mutton shin-bones, from here look like brown birds, fluffed-up in serge with waving woollen wings to flutter them across the ice – and even from this distance I can hear their cheerful little voices, shrieking with excitement. They have no thought of me and my business in the town, and wouldn’t care a jot about it if they had.

What fun though to be a child again and make a game of winter weather! We had another fall last night. I caught the scent of it before it came, but was surprised still when I threw the shutters back this morning to see the fields and hillsides blanketed with snow. The view my window gave me of the world made white and new was magical, enchanted – until its cold chill reached me, and I suddenly recalled my brave intent to ride to Lewes.

But was it brave, or foolish after all to say I’d come myself to pay the Jew for the last quarter of the year? God knows I’d not have promised it, but for Sir Hugh.

We were the first from Haddertun to cut fresh tracks to the frozen millstream, on untrodden snow that squeaked underfoot. When I looked behind I saw the manor mantled in an ermine coat with black tail-streaks for windows – the downs as sugarloaves, the stream a murky serpent snaking through the white. The harsh beauty of the landscape caught my breath and frosted it in icy plumes before my face.

There was that sense of quietness that always seems to come with snow, muffling the squeaks and crunches of the horses’ feet, when at Ram’s Combe we crossed the prints of other hooves and wheels. At Lewes the fishing nets looped from the willow spinneys by the river were all frozen, rimed with ice. But the way across the bridge into the town was slippery with trampled slush, and at the east gate we dismounted to lead our horses up the hill.

I’ve sent Kempe on ahead to clear the way – follow with Nesta (not too close, in case his rounsey slips and falls), with our two sergeants at my back to shield me from attack. Hod would have come despite her dread of Azrelites, and wasn’t pleased to be told a third time I could manage with the steward.

The payment’s safe enough with me. Heavens, I hardly know myself where we have sewn the pockets to the fox-fur lining of my cloak. And thank you very much, I’ve worked too hard to risk its loss to vagabonds and thieves! The last time I came myself to pay the interest on the loan was back in March, a bare fortnight after Garon rode away. In June I sent Kempe on his own. Then in September, quite against my wishes, Sir Hugh had made a point of carrying the dues to Lewes – determined as he ever has been to set me at a disadvantage.

When he and Lady Constance came in July to see how I was managing the manor, I did my best to show them what a careful eye I’ve kept on industry and waste. I have the capabilities, Maman made sure of that – and the morning after they arrived I showed My Lady all the looms and everything we’d woven. We solemnly inspected the bake ovens and the cheeses in the dairy, then toured the storerooms and the dyeing vats, the tanning sheds, the saltings and brewery. And ’though she made a point of brushing a stray cobweb from a chamber doorway – although she thought the fowls at breakfast over-cooked – the fact that she could find no more amiss than that, must prove me a success as Lady of the Manor. (Why wouldn’t it, when that is what I am?)

But it’s not Lady Constance, it’s her wretched husband… What is it that so maddens me about that man? His voice? His oily looks? Or is it how he manages to catch me out so often and make me feel uneasy?

At haymaking, when I climbed down the ladder backwards, looking like a peasant I’ve no doubt, he’d laughed so heartily that I’d no choice but to smile back. ‘I bid you welcome Sir.’ (About as welcome as a slap across the face with a wet herring!)

‘I take it you propose to stay?’ I added hastily to cover my mistake.

‘Take anything you like, my dear. I do at every opportunity.’

And when he laughed again, I smiled again – and lost my chance again of keeping things between us on any kind of a safe footing.

He was no better when he rode with me to view the kine, the standing corn and all our barn reserves. I’d swear he barely listened when I told him how much flour, how many bales of wool we’d sold, or when I listed all the rents and tithes that I could call to mind. (Kempe reads me all his latest dealings each Monday after breakfast, and my memory is excellent with figures).

But – ‘Have you considered what you’ll do if our brave soldier of the cross dies of an excess of hard steel in Palestine?’ was what he asked me first. And determined that time to do nothing further to encourage any kind of inappropriate response, I turned away to stare across the fields and tell him woodenly that I knew what to believe.

‘Is that so, my dear? Then put it into words. I am all ears – or I would be if I didn’t know the answer.’

‘Liar! You can’t know,’ I thought. Then asked him how he did.

‘I see it printed in large characters across your charming face. I see that you believe, because you want to – not only that our Garon is alive, but that he will return to you a changed and better man.’

I felt his eyes on me but wouldn’t meet them. ‘And if I should tell you that we’ll all end catching larks when the sky falls on us,’ he said cynically. ‘I don’t doubt, if you wanted to, you’d find a way to think that very probable as well.’

Imagining he planned to tease me further, I moved a short way up the laine towards the fallow land at Shaws.

‘But even if against all likelihood he manages to cheat the worms, d’ye think that a young man obsessed with military prowess will ever leave off questing once he’s started on that course?’ Sir Hugh persisted. ‘How can I put this to you gently? The boy’s a perfect bonehead and you know it. Surely it has crossed your mind that if he lives, he is as like as not to gallop into service with some local baron who’ll employ him killing Saracens so long as they’re in plentiful supply.’