CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
‘Master, come away now. You must eat.’ Tan’s voice had a note of desperation in it. Tudor turned to look at the young boy who was so skinny and small he looked like the rain might wash him off deck.
‘Go back below, Tan.’ Tudor had to raise his voice over the sound of a crashing wave.
‘The food… it will spoil,’ said Tan, his eyes darting anxiously towards the hatch.
Reluctantly, Tudor went with him, trying to ignore the pitiful whinny from his horse as he went.
Below decks was not a pleasant place to be.
The smell of urine, vomit and sweat was overwhelming, but he let Tan lead him to the small area that they had claimed as their own.
The boy was as terrified as Tudor’s horse, but at least he was able to distract himself with the business of looking after his beloved master.
They sat on the sacks of corn that doubled as a bed for Tan, who had singularly failed to stay in a hammock more than a few seconds.
He handed Tudor a bowl of grey meat in a grey gravy with a chunk of hard bread the size of a cabbage.
‘Not many are eating,’ Tan explained, nodding at the number of knights and their attendants who lay groaning in their hammocks or slumped over buckets. ‘There is plenty more,’
Despite his lack of interest in the grim food, Tudor forced himself to eat. Now was not the time to be losing strength.
To his left, two knights sat watching. From their mode of dress and way of speaking it was evident they were part of the French forces.
One was huge with a shock of blonde hair and pale blue eyes.
The other was more typically gallic, with dark colouring and aristocratic features.
The blonde one smiled but his level gaze remained upon Tudor as he addressed his friend.
‘See, he has at last come away from his precious horse.’
The darker man shrugged, ‘He probably thinks the animal is better company than most he will find down here.’
‘Is that it, my English friend? Do you prefer the company of beasts to men?’
Tudor knew when he was being ribbed and knew better than to take offence.
He ignored the slur about his heritage, knowing what the French generally thought of those who had been until recently their enemies.
He chose not to put them right on the matter of his birth, his ancestors all in fact being Cymraeg.
He continued eating, dipping the bread in the gravy in an attempt to render it edible.
Without looking up he said, ‘I prefer the company of those not covered in puke and piss.’
At this the blonde man laughed so loudly he caused Tan to flinch. ‘That seems good sense, indeed! It may be we would all fare better above decks than in this miserable pit.’
At that moment the ship rolled again as a particularly heavy wave struck it.
All in the hold were forced to cling to hammocks, ropes, each other, anything to stop themselves sliding across the floor and piling into a filthy heap.
When the boat righted itself the floor was awash with the contents of spilled buckets.
The dark Frenchman got to his feet, cursing elaborately in French. The blonde man continued to sit, resigned to the chaos. ‘Save your strength, Albert. Sit.’
‘In that?’
‘Why not? What cannot be avoided must be endured. Why waste time dancing around the inevitable. Do you not agree, Horseman?’ he asked.
Tudor had managed to stay sitting on the sacks and still held his food, which he forced himself to continue eating, even as unmentionable substances swirled around his feet.
‘I am happier spending my time planning a route home that does not include one day on the bedevilled ocean.’
‘Ha!’ said the blonde man. ‘You see, Albert? Here is a man of excellent sense.’ He wiped his hand on his tabard and then offered it to Tudor.
‘I am Jean d’Avignon, a votre servis, and my bad tempered companion is Albert Marchment.
Both travelling to assist our glorious King Philip in the recapture of Jerusalem and the removal of the heathen Saladin from his throne. ’
Tudor dropped his bread into his bowl and took the offered hand, shaking it firmly.
‘Evan Tudor,’ he told him. ‘On a similar mission for my own King Richard, and for his holiness the pope.’
‘Well met. If we survive this vessel of hell, nothing the idolatrous Arab and his Godless hoards can do to us will be of consequence, n’est pas?’
Albert cursed again, kicking a bucket as he did so. ‘I would cut a swathe through any army you like to find a clean bed and good food.’
Tudor nodded. ‘The news is encouraging, even though the odds are against us. I have heard Saladin does not command the loyalty of his men in the way of our own kings.’
Jean shrugged this time. ‘He has not knights, not such as we are. Albert and I have been here before. We have seen for ourselves the… low types pitched against us. They may hide behind the city walls, but they cannot hide their lack of quality.’
His friend shot him a look. ‘Spoken like a true Parisien.’
‘You think we will attack Jerusalem itself this time?’ Tudor asked. For all his experience as a knight, this was his first crusade. News of the wars that had raged for so many years was often confused and unreliable. He knew he had much to learn from more seasoned campaigners.
Jean looked serious for the first time then.
‘I hope not. Siege war has no glory in it, and does not play to our strengths.’ He was thoughtful for a moment and then laughed again, leaning forward to slap Tudor on the back.
‘But do not despair, Horseman, I promise you, no more oceans. Only oceans of sand from now on, eh?’ He chuckled at his joke but was forced to grab at a nearby hammock as the ship dropped into the trough between two waves.
Tudor finished his food, thanked Tan, nodded at his two new acquaintances, and headed back up to the deck to calm his horse.
The ship arrived at the Crusader stronghold of Acre the other side of the storm, gentle waters bearing it into the ancient port.
As Tudor led his horse down the ramps to the harbour, he offered a silent prayer of thanks.
It was good to feel firm land beneath his feet again.
He knew the city had been taken only after a long and costly siege and was thankful, also, that it was now cleaned, restored, and resupplied.
The stones of the city walls seemed to throb with the heat of the place, which surely lay beneath a different sun from that mild one that warmed his own country.
The stink of the ship’s hold was replaced by the vibrant scents of the mediterranean port.
He breathed in the salty breeze as it carried with it traces of a thousand small fires, cooked spices, rare oils, and exotic fruits and plants.
Everything was strange. He had travelled extensively in Europe in his role as a knight, but here was another world entirely.
He stood a moment, patting his horse’s neck, giving it time to find its land legs once more.
Tan caught him up with their few pieces of baggage.
Jean d’Avignon appeared pulling his own somewhat reluctant steed with him. He laughed at Tudor again.
‘The stables are to the west of the city walls, Horseman. I am certain you and your beloved animal will be most comfortable there.’
Tudor’s horse answered for him, flattening its ears and lunging forwards to sink its teeth into the French knight’s arm. Fortunately for all concerned, the bite only took a piece of shirt sleeve. Jean swore in two languages.
‘Where I come from,’ he said, frowning at his ruined garment, ‘we eat such horses!’
Tudor clicked his tongue and his horse walked meekly beside him as he moved on. ‘Where I come from, such horses eat men who mock them,’ he said as he passed the other knight.
The following hours were taken up with domesticated tasks.
He saw that his horse was safe in its corral with room to walk about and plenty of shade and water.
He paid a local boy to keep watch over it as it rolled happily in the sand and stood to shake off its journey before nibbling at its feed.
He and Tan then made their way through the garrisoned forces to his allotted quarters.
These consisted of a vast encampment of tents which almost doubled the size of the city itself.
Tan whistled with glee as he claimed a bed for his master and a small space in a tent for himself, happily unpacking their things.
He asked questions of the other servants and was able to locate a pool where Tudor could bathe and then return to put on the clean clothes he would prepare for him.
By evening, horse, servant and knight were all recovered from their voyage, fed, watered and clean.
It was while Tudor was sitting in the shade of the entrance to his tent that he saw Albert Marchment striding through the encampment. He was peering into tents along the way, evidently looking for someone. Tudor got to his feet and stepped forward.
‘Have you lost Jean already?’ he asked.
Albert shook his head. ‘It is you I seek. The commander requires three knights to reconnoitre . Before I could prevent it, Jean had volunteered us.’
‘He is eager, you cannot say otherwise.’
‘Mon Dieu, he is more hungry for glory than for food. We have no more than scraped the stink of that ship from our bodies and now he has us marching into the stinking desert.’ He gave a despairing gesture, his whole body shrugging this time.
‘Alors, we are a man short. Come, Englishman,’ he said, turning and striding away without allowing Tudor the chance to protest or refuse.
‘And leave your armour. We will travel light.’