CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #4
An Arab soldier swung a scimitar at Tudor so close he felt the air move against his cheek.
While the other soldier was off balance, leaning into the swing, he let go the reins, drew his short sword and buried it into the man’s side beneath his arm, where the mail hauberk he wore had a hole.
It found its mark and the soldier fell heavily to the ground.
Steering his horse with his legs and the angle of his body, Tudor pushed between two more soldiers, despatching one with his longer sword, ducking and dodging a blow from the other.
He wheeled his horse about, turning it on its hindquarters with enough speed to evade an axe thrown through the air.
He saw Jean remove the head of a luckless rider.
It was while he was witnessing this move that the club that felled him connected with the back of his head.
He had not time to think how he had been outwitted or who it was who had so successfully knocked him from his horse.
By the time he reached the salty, hard ground, blackness had claimed him.
Tudor drifted in and out of consciousness, aware only that he was being carried somewhere, and registering at one point the transition from the desert heat to the cool of an interior.
When he finally came to his senses he was not, then, surprised to find himself in a rough walled cell.
There was a single high glassless window which let in the light of the coming dawn, and an iron grill for a door which gave onto a dark corridor.
The small room was otherwise devoid of features.
He sat up, wincing as stabs of pain travelled through his head.
‘Not dead yet, Horseman?’ asked a familiar voice in the gloom.
As his eyes adjusted to the low light, Tudor saw Jean, his face bloodied, sitting on the floor opposite him. In the corner, Albert lay muttering indecipherable words.
‘Albert…?’
‘He’s not dead either. But his temper is even worse than usual. He detests being taken prisoner. Takes it far too personally, if you ask me.’
With some difficulty, Tudor sat up. He looked more closely at Jean. For all the Frenchman’s joking he looked to be in pain. There was a darkness about his features and a tension around his eyes that had not been there before.
‘Are you injured?’ Tudor asked him.
‘A few scratches,’ was all he would admit to.
‘And the others?’
‘Dead. Apart from your servant, who was saved by his poor camel riding skills. And your horse got away too. Three Arabs tried to take him,’ Jean gave a snort of laughter. ‘I believe that animal has the teeth of a crocodile.’
‘He’s particular about the company he keeps.’
Albert sat up, still swearing in French. Tudor was shocked to see how badly the skirmish had altered him. His wounds were not serious, it seemed, yet there were profound changes in his expression, his demeanour, even the way he held himself, his body hunched into itself awkwardly.
Footsteps along the passageway alerted them to the arrival of three guards. The knights got to their feet. The door was unlocked. Two guards marched forwards and took hold of Tudor. His friends moved to defend him but he held up his hands.
‘Do not concern yourselves with me,’ he told them, knowing that the gesture could result only in more injuries. He allowed himself to be led from the cell.
The guards took him along what transpired to be a short corridor, through an outer chamber that served no purpose other than to keep the cell more secure, and then out of the building.
He blinked as the searing sunlight struck his eyes.
He was not shackled, and the guards did not have their swords drawn, but the reasons for this quickly became clear.
The small dwelling was but a tiny insignificant structure in the midst of the vast encampment.
All around him, in every direction, were soldiers and weaponry and horses and camels and the general accoutrements of war.
Any attempt at escape would be entirely futile.
He was marched through the groups of men, past smouldering camp fires until they came to the sophisticated arrangements of tents which were so splendid and luxurious he surmised they could only belong to their exulted leader.
He was made to wait while a soldier went inside to announce his arrival.
When the word was given, he was shoved forwards, through the dark red rugs that hung in the entrance, and into the main tent itself.
The interior was significantly cooler than the morning heat outside.
The space was furnished as if it were a comfortable home, rather than a billet on campaign.
There were tables with bowls of fruit and soft muslin curtains dividing up the area, beautiful silk rugs on the floor, and comfortable seating.
On the far side of the room was a large chair, covered in goatskins, and on it sat the ruler of the Muslim world, Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, known far and wide as Saladin.
Tudor was pushed roughly to his knees. He waited to see what would happen next, uncertain of why he alone had been chosen to be brought before their illustrious commander.
He was aware of his own shabby state, without armour, his clothes filthy with dirt and blood, his head wound unwashed.
He lifted his gaze to meet that of his captor, but one of the guards pushed him down again.
‘Enough.’ Saladin waved the guards away.
Tudor raised his head a second time. When nobody sought to stop him, he got to his feet. Now he freely gave a small bow of his head. ‘I am honoured to be in the presence of such greatness,’ he said, understanding the custom for military deference and good manners.
‘You are an English knight,’ said the sultan. ‘I too am honoured.’ With a graceful hand he gestured towards a seat padded with leather and covered in the softest goatskin. ‘Please. Sit.’
Tudor did so with as much dignity as he could manage. The blow to his head had left him feeling dizzy, so that his feet did not willingly do his bidding. He was thankful for the chance to sit. Further signals from his host brought cups of water and a bowl of dates.
‘Eat. Drink.’
Tudor knew better than to refuse, and in any case was happy to be able to slake his thirst. He took the cup and drained it and naturally reached for the food with his left hand.
When he noticed the sultan react minutely he stopped himself, setting down the cup so that he could use his right hand - the only one considered clean - to eat with.
Only when he had finished his refreshments did the conversation begin.
‘King Richard must have many knights if he can spare three on a simple errand to find me,’ he said. His accent was pronounced but his use of English was excellent.
Tudor regarded him carefully. Had he been brought from his cell to be interrogated?
He had barely been in Acre twenty-four hours and had not so much as set foot within its walls, so he was in no position to comment on what the king might or might not be thinking.
He wondered how much the sultan actually knew.
Was he the sort of man to play games? He was immaculately turned out.
His robes were of very fine material and spotlessly clean.
His headdress was a swirl of richly coloured fabrics and his eyes were deep set and darker than any Tudor had seen before.
At the centre of the great man’s turban there was an enormous and glorious ruby.
‘I was happy to do my king’s bidding.’
‘Of course.’ He paused then, as if studying his prisoner with great attention. When he spoke again his voice was quite relaxed and his interest appeared sincere. ‘Tell me, English knight, what does it mean to you, to fight for the king’s cause?’
‘Everything. It is… what I am for.’
‘And you believe his cause to be just?’
‘It would make no difference if I did not. Such judgements are not for one such as me. Knights serve.’
‘Quite so, but you do believe him to be a just king? You believe that he fights for your God?’
‘Yes.’
‘And thus, if we are to follow that reasoning, I, by opposing him, must be unjust.’
Tudor chose his words with care. ‘I… am not privy to your intentions,’ he replied.
‘But they are in direct conflict with those of your own king.’
‘Your actions may be ruthless. I cannot speak to your motives.’
‘Ruthless? You think this? Tell me, what have your heard of Sal-a-dhin?’ he asked, deliberately mispronouncing his own name in the way a European might.
‘That he is a man of honour.’
His host looked disappointed. ‘I have no interest in politeness.’
Tudor tried again. ‘That he is a fearless soldier, always at the front of his troops on the battlefield.’
Saladin nodded but was clearly waiting for more. Tudor was too sore and too weary to play games. ‘And that he shows no mercy. That after the siege of Acre, when he had lost the city, he executed all of his prisoners.’
Saladin drew in a long, slow breath and sat a little straighter in his chair.
He nodded. ‘It is true, what you say. I had nearly two thousand men, some from the camp of the German Barbarossa, some belonging to the French king, but most, like you, Englishmen. Many of them knights. What you heard, that I chose to execute them all when I could have released them, this is indeed the truth.’ His expression hardened as he continued.
‘What you do not say, what truth you have not heard, is that before I did this terrible thing, your own King Richard - the Lionheart! The brave and good and fearless Englishman - he marched nearly three thousand of his prisoners out of the city. He stood them in front of the ancient walls and he paraded them, so that we could all see them. So that I could see them. They were not all soldiers. Many were old men, women and children who had been living their lives peacefully in what had, until only days before, been their home! Your noble king executed each and every one of them.’
Tudor gasped, despite his best efforts to remain inscrutable. Saladin was right. This was news that had not reached him. Nor, he suspected, had it yet reached anyone else at home in England or France.
‘So you see,’ Saladin went on, ‘I am not the barbarian you think me. I act as I must in times of war. Your compatriots were slain in retaliation for the actions of your king. Their blood is on his hands.’ As he spoke he hesitated, holding up his own hands to scrutinise them, as if they too might show the indelible stains of his own murderous acts.
‘Nor am I a warmonger. I resist each time I must send men to die on the battlefield. This… hesitancy that has lost me territory. Cities.’ He dropped his hands to his lap and met Tudor’s gaze again.
‘It may be it will lose me the very war itself. It may be this struggle will end only because one of us no longer has a stomach for slaughter. Do you think that person will be your proud king? Or the arrogant French monarch? Or the intractable German ruler? Will your holy father in Rome stop before every last Muslim soul has been claimed?’ When Tudor gave no answer to this he signalled to a servant and had pen and paper brought to him.
He laid the sheet out on a board which was handed to him for the purpose, dipped the quill into an inkwell, and began to write.
‘I am no scholar. My family saw to it I could speak five languages because to do so was advantageous in business. I write in your alphabet for the same reason. The fact is, my humble English knight, Saladin the Great is a man of peace. I am tired of war. My people are tired of war. Our country’s soil is peppered with the ground bones from it.
Our rivers run red with blood from it. I will have you take these words to your king.
Tell him Saladin will give him terms, will give him what he wants, in return for a lasting peace.
’ He signed the letter with a flourish and had his servant apply the seal of his house. ‘Step forward,’ he said.
Tudor did as he was instructed. When he stood only an arm’s length from the greatest foe his country had ever faced, he found he could not hate the man.
Far from being terrifying, there emanated from him a calmness, a marked tranquility, so noticeable that, to his astonishment, Tudor felt his own spirits soothed.
Felt the pain of his wounds lessen. Felt his heart comforted.
Confused, he took the letter and tucked it into his tabard.
‘In the morning,’ Saladin told him, ‘you and your brethren will be released. You will deliver my letter and tell your king that I am in earnest? Many lives depend upon it.’
‘I will. On my life,’ he said, holding his hand over his heart.
Saladin nodded and relaxed back into his chair. ‘All will be well, then,’ he said. ‘Now go with my men. They will take you to our baths, dress your wounds, clean your clothes, and feed you. Tomorrow before the sun has troubled itself to rise, you will be on your way.’
Dismissed, Tudor gave a bow, finding himself almost reluctant to leave the presence of the great peacemaker Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub.