usual high standards. Crisp, freshly baked flatbread and a roasted eggplant and walnut dip were followed by a divine apricot stew, the sweet fruit blending perfectly with savoury morsels of lamb. Yusuf sighed. It was his favourite dish, but thanks to Ibn Jumay, everything tasted like rotten eggs. Yusuf ignored the food and listened to Ayub and Shirkuh, desperate to know if he would be joining his father on his mission to Damascus. But as the stew gave way to lentils and roast lamb, Ayub and Shirkuh continued to talk of mundane matters: harvests, the size of their herds and that year’s tribute.
Finally, after the last dish had been cleared away, and servants had brought cups of sweet orange juice to refresh them, Yusuf’s father cleared his throat and clapped his hands twice to get their attention. ‘Shirkuh has brought troubling news. The Franks have launched a second crusade. The French king and queen are expected to land in Antioch any day now. They may be there already.’
‘Allah help us!’ Basimah exclaimed. ‘This means war.’
‘That it does,’ Shirkuh agreed. ‘And it will be all we can do to turn back the Franks. Our spies say they are bringing hundreds of knights, with those accursed warhorses of theirs. We will need every sword that we can muster.’
‘I will fight!’ Yusuf declared. ‘I am old enough.’
Basimah frowned, but Shirkuh smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm. Ayub’s face remained an expressionless mask as he turned his hard, grey eyes on his son. Yusuf sat up straight and returned his searching stare. Finally, his father nodded. ‘We must all do our part. That is why I must go to Damascus. Tomorrow, my men and I will leave for the city. Turan and Yusuf will come with me.’ Yusuf could not contain his smile.
‘Turan and Yusuf will-not-go!’ Basimah stated, her voice rising with each word. ‘You will not take my sons to be murdered by those barbarians.’
‘Peace, Wife,’ Ayub replied, his voice calm and even. ‘You forget your place.’
‘No, Husband, you forget yours. It is your duty to protect your sons, and yet you propose to lead them like lambs to the slaughter. Do you want them to be taken and sold as slaves? To come of age amidst the infidels?’
‘Our sons will not be taken. I am not bringing them to fight, but they are of an age when they must learn the ways of war. They must come to know our enemy.’
‘And if Damascus falls, what then? The Franks are savages. They know nothing of God or mercy. They know only blood and the sword. They killed my father, my mother, my brother. They-’ Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away. ‘They did horrible things. They will not kill my sons!’
‘If Damascus falls, then your sons will not be safe anywhere,’ Shirkuh said gently. ‘You cannot protect them forever, Basimah.’
Basimah opened her mouth to retort, but Ayub raised his hand, stopping her. ‘I give you my word that no harm will befall Turan or Yusuf. They are my sons, too.’
Basimah’s head fell. ‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘Come, Zimat. There is work to be done. Let us leave these men to their talk.’ She rose and ushered Zimat out, but then stopped in the doorway. When Basimah turned back to them, her eyes shone with tears. ‘I have your word, Ayub. You will bring my children back to me.’
Chapter 2
John leaned over the ship’s rail and vomited into the sparkling, clear blue waters of Acre harbour. His company of knights had been at sea for a week, sailing down the coast of Outremer from Attalia, and John had been miserably sick the entire trip. Still, he thanked God that he had not been left behind, prey to hunger, thirst and the devilish Seljuk Turks. They had shadowed the crusading army throughout the long march across the arid lands of Anatolia, swooping down after dark on their sleek horses and riddling the crusaders with arrows before melting back into the night like ghosts. The Seljuks had killed thousands, and when the leaders of the crusade took a handful of men and sailed from Attalia, thousands more had been left to the Turks’ mercy. At sixteen, John was only a foot-soldier, but his noble blood had entitled him to a place on the ships. At least it was good for something, he thought, and then puked again.
John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at the city of Acre. Ships lined the curving quay, their tall masts bare of sails. On the decks, sailors were busy unloading casks, sacks of grain and bleating sheep. Beyond the ships, the harbour was crowded with market stalls, and past them sat square, dusty-white buildings set one on top of the other. To John’s right, the buildings stretched away to a massive tower, part of the wall that protected the city; to his left, they ran uphill to a thick-walled citadel.
‘Saxon!’ someone barked, and John turned to see the hulking, thickly bearded figure of Ernaut stomping towards him. Ernaut smirked when he saw the trail of yellow-brown vomit on John’s white surcoat. ‘Stop your puking and get your arse over here. Lord Reynald wants to speak to us.’
John followed Ernaut to the foredeck, where the other men had gathered in their chainmail and surcoats, white with red crusader’s crosses on the chest. Ernaut disappeared into the rear cabin and returned a moment later with Reynald. Reynald de Chatillon was a handsome, well-proportioned man of twenty-three. He had sharp features, closely cropped hair and a well-groomed, short black beard. He smiled at them, revealing even, white teeth.
‘My men,’ he began, ‘it has been nearly a year since we left our homes for the Holy Land. Now at last, by the grace of God, we have arrived, and our holy work can begin.’ Several of the men sniggered. Reynald had drunk and whored his way through every village between Worms and Attalia. Reynald’s eyes narrowed and his smile faded. The sniggering stopped immediately.
‘You may be wondering why we have not sailed to Antioch with King Louis and the others,’ Reynald continued. ‘Our king has entrusted me with an important mission at the court of Baldwin, King of Jerusalem.’ As he was speaking, three of the ship’s sailors leapt the short distance to the dockside, grabbed ropes and began to pull the boat tight against the quay. ‘As emissaries of King Louis, we must be on our best behaviour.’ Reynald’s voice was hard-edged. ‘I will go ashore to announce our presence to King Baldwin. You are to wait at the docks until we are told where to camp. I want no trouble. That means no women and no wine.’ The men groaned. Reynald’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, and the men quieted. Reynald was a deadly swordsman. He nodded, satisfied. ‘You will wait here,’ he repeated and marched off down the gangway the sailors had set up, followed by two sergeants, Thomas and Bertran.
‘You heard Lord Reynald!’ Ernaut bellowed at the men. ‘There’s to be no trouble. Now get below and grab your gear.’
John followed the other men below decks. The dank hold was lit only dimly by a shaft of light shining through the hatch above. The huge warhorses whose stalls took up most of the space nickered and stamped, thinking that they were going to be fed. John kept his distance. It was not the size of the chargers that set them apart from other horses, so much as their temperament. It had been John’s task during the voyage to muck out their stalls, and he had been bitten, stepped on or kicked more than once.
John headed away from the stalls to the cramped space where the knights had slept, their thin blankets laid out almost on top of one another. John grabbed the leather rucksack containing his helmet, spare tunic, simple tent, woollen blanket and prayer book. He already wore his most valuable possessions: leather boots and breeches; chainmail armour that hung to his knees; a tattered cloak; a tall, kite-shaped shield slung over his back; a waterskin dangling from his shoulder; and hanging from his belt, his father’s sword and a pouch containing a few coppers and his wetting stone.
John climbed from the hold with his rucksack slung over his shoulder and marched down the gangway. Several other men were kneeling on the ground and kissing the soil. John joined them, crossing himself and offering up a prayer to the Virgin for his safe arrival. It seemed like a lifetime since he had fled England with only the armour on his back and a sword at his side. He had joined the crusade in Worms and marched through the great cities of Salonika, Constantinople and Ephesus. Now, at last, he was in Outremer, the Holy Land. He rose and breathed deeply. The usual smells of a port – salty sea air and freshly caught fish – were overlaid with more pungent odours from the nearby market: heavily perfumed women, roasting meats, yeasty bread and burning
