that day and been mauled in each encounter. It was in their nature as light cavalry not to stand and face the heavy horse of Christendom, but to sting and run, regroup and return, to harass and kill from afar. But nevertheless, when a hundred exhausted, gore-flecked knights rampaged into their front ranks, swords swinging, shouting ‘St George,’ and ‘The Holy Sepulchre’ and one lone voice hoarsely crying ‘Westbury!’ — the Turks fled, turning their neat little ponies and riding east as fast as they could. The dust boiled around them and thousands of fine horsemen showed their backs and galloped from the field.
It was the beginning of the end for Saladin that day. Richard’s knights had smashed into the centre and the King and his men were busily chopping their way through the Sultan’s elite guards towards the man Richard most wanted to duel with face to face. But it was not to be. Under the combined assaults on the left, right and centre, the great Muslim warlord ordered the retreat, and with a pig-squeal of trumpets and a cacophony of cymbals, leaving the regiments of his loyal bodyguard to cover the withdrawal, he quit the field in a cloud of churning dust.
We were too exhausted to pursue him. And I merely watched with a drooping head, my whole body aching with fatigue, as Richard’s men smashed the last formations of the enemy in a series of lightning charges. The day was won, and praise God, I had lived through it.
Many of our men had not. Sir James de Brus was dead. I came across his body as I was riding slowly back towards our lines. He had been hacked into several pieces by the Nubians, half a dozen of whom lay dead or dying about his shattered corpse. His horse had been eviscerated and stood by his remains, whimpering, with great fat purple-green entrails hanging around its blood-splashed hooves. I put it swiftly out of its misery with a deep cut through the neck from my poniard and marked the position of Sir James’s body by means of his upright sword thrust into the turf. I meant to return later and arrange for a proper burial for my friend, but the sun was low in the sky and I had no way of carrying the pieces of him back to our lines with dignity. I could feel the blood drying on my face in great scabs and when I looked at my hands it seemed that I was wearing a pair of red gloves, so thickly were they slathered in gore. More than anything, while it was still light, I wanted to go down to the sea and wash some of the battle-filth from my body. Then I wanted to rest for a month.
I returned to our lines to find that my friend Will Scarlet, too, had died of his wounds. I felt a deep welling up of sadness in my chest as I looked down at his body; the blue eyes staring sightlessly upwards to Heaven, where I prayed he would now be warmly welcomed for his part in our venture. So many dead on this pilgrimage to Jerusalem; so much blood spilled in the name of Jesus Christ: I thought of the Jews of York who had killed their own children and taken their own lives rather than be slaughtered by blood-drunk Christians who believed they were doing God’s will; I thought of dead Ruth, whose deep eyes and womanly figure had so captivated me for a day or so, and which I now could no longer remember with any clarity. I remembered Sir James de Brus and the terrible scowl that he used to conceal a kindly heart, and poor dead Will, now lying at my feet, who had wanted to be liked by his men, and who had found a strange kind of happiness with Elise. And most of all I thought of Nur — of the shining beauty she once wore effortlessly, like a golden halo, and poor mutilated monster that she had become — and all because of me.
The tears were streaming down the sides of my nose when my servant William came to me with a piece of bread, a hunk of pork and a jug of spring water. ‘Are you hu-hurt, sir?’ he asked, looking at the blood that caked my hauberk, face and limbs with deep concern.
‘I am well, thank you, William,’ I said, sniffing, ‘but I must wash before I can eat. Let us go down to the sea.’
And so we took the narrow path that led away from the army, down the steep red-earthed cliffs and towards the blue water in a sheltered bay away from prying eyes. I could only move stiffly down that winding path, but Keelie gambled about us like the puppy she had so recently been, happy to be alive and curious about every scent that wafted past her black nose. I wondered at her energy — I myself could hardly move and I gave William my shield to carry for suddenly I found the weight of it almost unbearable. At the sandy edge of the wide Mediterranean, I stripped to the flesh and leaving William and Keelie to guard my weapons and clothes, naked as the day I was born, I waded out through the gentle wavelets and plunged into the cool embrace of the sea. I did not travel far out from the beach for my swimming skill was poor, but with the water only chest deep, I frolicked in the comforting swell like a dolphin, washing the gore from me in the last warmth of the sun, which hung like a great bronze shield far out to the west over the dark blue waters.
Coming to the surface and looking back at the shore no more than forty yards away. I noticed something odd. I moved in towards the beach to see more clearly what was happening. There were two figures, men-at- arms, standing beside the mound of my clothes, and one stunted shape that appeared to be a dwarf beside them. I noted the colour of the surcoats, as I splashed forward through knee-high water, and my heart sank down into my bowels. They were scarlet and sky blue — and then I saw that the tall man standing slightly ahead of the other had a lock of white hair in an otherwise russet head. It was Sir Richard Malbete.
‘Come out of the water, singing boy,’ said Malbete. ‘Come closer and we shall have a pleasant little sing- song on the beach.’ His deep voice was rich with black mirth. I stayed where I was on the edge of the water, twenty yards away; naked, dripping, with my hands cupping my private parts. Sir Richard Malbete did not move: he stood there, one hand on his sword hilt, and stared at me with his feral brown eyes. The man-at-arms moved over the dwarf-like figure, and pulled a long knife from his belt. I saw that it was William, bound hand and foot, with a red mark on the side of his head where somebody had hit him. He was bound tightly in a crouching position, but he looked more furious than frightened when the man-at-arms put the knife to his throat. Beside the boy was the corpse of Keelie, her golden yellow head smashed open by some savage blow. I could feel a deep current of rage begin to flow in my heart, black and strong, at the death of that happy dog.
‘Come to me, singing boy,’ crooned Malbete in his deep tones, ‘or your servant will surely die.’
I had no choice: it was a matter of loyalty. William had been a good and faithful servant to me and I could not save myself by running away and condemn him to death, even if it meant my own doom. And I did not want to run away; I was willing to crush Malbete with my bare hands if necessary or die trying. So I began to walk, very slowly towards the two men. I stopped, just out of sword-reach, by the mound of my clothes. Malbete showed his big yellow teeth. ‘This is going to be a great pleasure,’ he said in his deep, slow voice, ‘one that I’ve looked forward to for a long while. I came to this strand only looking for a quiet place to bathe, and look what I found!’ And very slowly he pulled the sword from its sheath, the metal grating against the scabbard lip and setting my teeth on edge. He grinned at me horribly and took a pace forward.
Then I said: ‘Sir Richard, surely, you would not kill a naked man? Might I have permission to dress myself first like a decent Christian?’ I was trying to sound as humble as possible; and discreetly eyeing the area around the mound of my clothes at the same time. The other man-at-arms spoke then. Standing up beside William, he hauled out a heavy tangle of sandy leather belts from behind his body, from which hung my poniard and my sword. Dangling them from his fist, he said: ‘Was this what you were seeking, sir?’ and he barked out a laugh. His calling me ‘sir’ was in some ways worse than being called ‘singing boy’. Disappointment showed in my face and Malbete began roaring with laughter. ‘By all means, dress yourself, singing boy. I am in no hurry. I like to take my time over my little pleasures.’ With his left hand he gestured magnanimously towards the pile of my gear.
I bent slowly towards the ground, keeping my eyes on Malbete, my hand reaching down, fingers extending, groping through the sand, feeling my way — and snatched up a fist-sized rock from the beach that I had been eyeing since I had left the water’s edge. Spinning fast, I whipped my arm forward and hurled the stone as hard as I could towards Sir Richard’s face. I have said before that I am a good shot, and I have boasted that I am quick in battle, but at that moment I was as fast as I have ever been. The stone hurtled from my fist and streaked towards Malbete’s head, half a pound of flying sea-smoothed rock aimed directly at his nose — and, just in time, he ducked. But God was with me that day — for the rock whirred over Malbete’s head and smashed into the mouth of the man-at-arms who had just moved directly behind him. It landed with stunning force. The man-at-arms dropped like a sack of meal to the sand, and Malbete curled away from me, keeping low, darting incredulous glances at the unconscious man-at-arms, and just giving me enough time to grab my shield. Then Sir Richard lashed out with his long blade and, with a flat crack, I managed to block it directly with the face of the shield.
I took a step towards the fallen man-at-arms, trying for my weapons, which lay in a tangle at his side, but Malbete was too canny to let me near him. He stepped forward and slashed at my head, and then my right side in quick succession. I stopped his cuts with the shield, and backed away. I was suddenly conscious that I was totally
