men. Choose a squadron of sergeants as executioners, men who have the stomach for it; I want the Muslims beheaded a hundred at a time. See to it.’
I stood rooted to the spot. I knew instantly that I had to refuse, but did not know how to.
The King turned to stare at me.
‘Well?’
‘Sire, you must relieve me of this task; I can’t obey your order.’
The volcanic response did not happen as I felt sure it would; he just spoke in the same calm voice.
‘Very well, send for Mercadier.’
When I left the Lionheart’s quarters, I was shaking with anxiety. I knew I had done the right thing. But at what price?
I sought out Abbot Alun, but he was nowhere to be found.
Two hours later, led by Mercadier and accompanied by several conrois of the King’s bodyguard, men of my own command, a long line of Muslim troops snaked its way on to the flat, fertile ground to our east. As they did so, William Marshal came into my chamber. He looked at me uncompromisingly.
‘You are relieved of your command and all your responsibilities to the King, here and at home. You may retain your status as a knight of the realm and your lands in England, to which you must return forthwith. You may take your men with you.’ He then turned and left, but as he reached the doorway, he added, ‘I’m sorry.’
My fate was inevitable as soon as I refused to accept the King’s order. I tried to convince myself that I had done the right thing, which I knew to be true, but living with my virtue was not going to be easy. I found the Little Quintet and told them what had happened. For them, good pay, a secure future and the acclaim of being a crusader was at an end. They were kind enough to say that they respected my decision, but it was as big a body blow for them as it was for me. When I found Abbot Alun, he was standing on the walls of Acre looking eastwards. His head was bowed in prayer.
The executions had begun; they could be seen in the distance. Lines of men, 100 abreast in almost 30 rows, were all kneeling in their immaculate dark-blue qaba tunics, waiting stoically for the executioner’s blade. One hundred Christian sergeants struck in unison, rendering the kneeling figures into distorted shapes on the ground. Heads rolled away, some with their pink silk turbans still attached; blood spilled on to the ground. It would have had a dance-like symmetry had all the strikes been clean, but some heads had to be hacked off with several blows, making the spectacle even more horrific.
The city was quiet and there was a stillness in the air; the birds seemed not to sing, the crickets not to chirp. We were too far away to hear the swish of the blades, but it was as if we could.
Alun looked up.
‘I’m sorry to hear your news. You did a noble thing, my friend. I’m only sorry our King does not possess the same nobility. When do you leave?’
‘This evening. We need to get past the Muslim lines before morning.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘North, I think. I want to go home overland and see Constantinople and Venice. If the Germans can make it, then so can I. I might even go and see Negu in Rupertsberg, to see if she has become a nun.’
‘May I come with you? I cannot stay after this.’
‘But what of your promise to Earl Harold?’
‘I’ve done all I can. I have accepted that the Lionheart has a temper and is ruthless. But this is too much.’
‘Very well, we are leaving by the North Gate at dusk. There will be just seven of us; we will travel light, and quickly.’
About an hour before dusk, as we were preparing our horses, Alun appeared. He was out of breath – not a state in which he was often seen.
‘The princesses, Anna and Theodora, have heard of our departure. They have begged the King to let them accompany us to Margat to see their father.’
‘That’s out of the question; it’s over a hundred and fifty miles away, across the Muslim lines.’
‘The King has given them a galley and a conroi of men.’
‘Then what happens after Margat?’
‘The galley and the men must return. We can continue our journey.’
‘And the princesses?’
‘It is of little concern to the King. Once they reach Margat, they become responsible for themselves, or they throw themselves on the mercy of the Hospitallers.’
Although I did not relish the responsibility of protecting two princesses, Margat Castle was only a mile or so from the sea. And the journey by sea in the galley supplied by the King was far less perilous than the prospect of the journey overland through Muslim territory. Besides which, the princesses were both very beautiful – especially Anna, who had captivated me on Cyprus.
‘When do we sail?’
‘Tomorrow morning, at dawn. We have been given a good captain and the weather is set fair.’
18. Margat
By mid-morning the next day, we were making rapid progress along the coast of Palestine. The princesses had come on board bleary-eyed and sullen, with only a handmaiden each, a modest chest of belongings and a small casket of silver. I felt sorry for them; only a few weeks ago, they were princesses of a beautiful island realm, surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and without a care in the world. Now, all but alone, they had voluntarily relinquished the lifeline of a place at the court of Queen Berengere to go to a father imprisoned in a remote Hospitaller enclave, in the midst of a relentless enemy.
The galley put us ashore in a small horseshoe-shaped sandy bay. The King’s conroi escorted us to the barbican of Margat, before it returned to board the ship and sail back to Acre. It was strange to be in a small group of eleven after so many months in the company of an army of thousands, especially as we appeared to be so small beneath the colossal walls of Margat.
It was a forbidding sight, a towering edifice of black rock, high on a hill, looming over a countryside dotted only with small farms and hamlets. The land was patterned with olive groves and vineyards, as it had been for centuries, but was now dominated by this new Christian sentinel. Amidst the sweltering heat of summer, the castle’s only redeeming feature was its cool interior. Otherwise, it was an austere place with none of the trappings of a regal palace. The Hospitallers lived spartan lives; even Gerard, the Castellan of Margat, a tall and gaunt Burgundian, lived frugally, with only two chairs and a prayer desk in a room without decorations or luxuries of any kind, except the Bible that sat on the desk.
Margat was home to over 1,000 men: almost 400 knights and their attendants, plus other non-combatants. The Hospitallers presented a menacing image in their long black cappas, especially when in large groups early in the mornings, with their hoods up against the cool of the dawn air. In the half-light, with their soft leather shoes making no sound on the castle’s sett stones, they looked like spectres of long-dead knights killed in battle centuries before.
Anna and Theodora’s father was free to move around the castle’s rooms and bailey, but not beyond its walls. He had just one steward to attend to him and lived in a chamber as austere as the knights’ quarters. When he greeted us, he looked weary and despondent, but he was thrilled to see his daughters.
As the princesses went inside Margat’s keep to enjoy their reunion, I sat with Alun and Godric and the rest of the Little Quintet to explain our route to the north. Godric had reservations about the journey.
‘Sire, the Hospitallers only guard the road to the north for about a hundred miles from here; after that, we would be at the mercy of the Muslims. Then we have to cross Anatolia, which is the domain of the Seljuk Turks. None of us has ever been there, and they say the conditions are treacherous – even without the Turks.’
I could sense the apprehension emanating from all five of them, but tried to convince them.
‘The only other way is by boat. But the King has all the vessels in use for the Crusade.’
‘But, sire, we could use a small boat and keep close to the shore.’
