‘Sounds like the Reynald I knew,’ John murmured.
Aestan took another drink. ‘Still, I’d fight for the devil himself, so long as he pays.’
John smiled. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He had lifted his tankard to his lips when someone roughly grabbed his shoulder, causing him to spill his drink.
One of the Hospitallers, a bearded, red-faced man, leaned over the table next to him. His breath stank of cheap wine. ‘What are you two Saxon dogs scheming about?’ the Hospitaller demanded in Frankish.
‘Bite your tongue, Norman swine,’ Aestan growled in English. He began to stand, but John reached across the table and placed a hand on his shoulder. He rose and turned towards the Hospitaller, who was backed by three more knights. They were all armed. John wished that he had not left his sword back in Yusuf’s camp.
‘I am a slave merchant,’ John said in Frankish. ‘We were discussing business.’
‘A merchant, eh?’ the knight slurred. His eyes went to John’s purse. ‘There’s a tax on merchants operating in the port.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m collecting.’ John did not want to make a scene. He reached into his purse and handed the knight a silver dirham. The knight held it up to examine it. Nur ad-Din’s likeness was printed on one side. ‘Saracen money,’ the knight said. ‘This is no good here. What else have you got?’
‘That is all I have.’
The knight looked to his friends and grinned. ‘Well, then, it’s the stocks for you.’ He placed a meaty hand on John’s shoulder.
John sighed. It seemed the knight was determined to make trouble. ‘Wait,’ John said. ‘I may have a Frankish gold piece.’ The knight’s eyes went wide with greed, and he released John’s shoulder. John placed his hand in his purse, then pulled it out in a fist, which he slammed into the Hospitaller’s face, knocking him sprawling backwards into one of his friends. The other two knights raised their fists.
‘You’ll pay for that, Saxon dog,’ one of them said. He started to throw a punch when Aestan leapt over the table and slammed into the knight, bowling him over.
‘Norman pig!’ Aestan roared, his face flushed red and his fists flying.
The tavern owner – a beefy, native Christian – waded into the melee, separating John from the fourth Hospitaller. ‘That’s enough,’ he roared as he reached down to pull Aestan off the fallen knight. He received a punch in the back from the fourth Hospitaller for his efforts. A moment later, a serving girl slammed a tankard over the knight’s head, dropping him. John took advantage of the chaos to slip outside.
He set out immediately from the city, the sun setting behind him as he strode along the road beside the Kadisha River. Eventually, he left the river behind, and it was long since dark when he reached the banks of the Orontes. He headed upstream and then waded across the river and into Yusuf’s camp. Yusuf came out to meet him.
‘Did you find anything?’ he asked.
John nodded. ‘The Franks are gathering troops to the north, in Antioch.’
NOVEMBER 1156: ON THE BORDER OF THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM
They broke camp that night, and Yusuf led them north along the Orontes River, past the castle of Shaizar and into the lands of the principality of Antioch. This was Frankish territory, and they gave wide birth to the Frankish castles in their path – Apamea, Sarminiqa, Inab and Arzghan. During the day they camped out of sight in the hills that bordered the river. On the third day, as they were making camp in the hills, John pointed out a far-off band of Frankish knights heading east, their plate armour glinting under the morning sun. ‘Where do you think they are headed?’
Yusuf shrugged. ‘There are not enough to attack a castle. They must be raiders.’
‘If they are raiding into Muslim lands, then that would violate the treaty.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘When night falls, we will follow their tracks.’
They broke camp as the sun was setting, and rode down from the hills. The Franks had left a wide trail, and Yusuf found their tracks easily, even in the dim twilight. They followed the tracks east as the light faded from the sky, and stars emerged above them. They had been riding for several hours when Yusuf saw something in the distance. It looked like a disembodied, turbaned head, floating in the darkness. Yusuf blinked, but the head remained.
‘’Sblood,’ John muttered beside him. ‘What sort of devilry is this?’ They rode on, and more floating heads appeared. Yusuf’s horse whinnied nervously.
‘We should turn back,’ Turan said, reining in.
Yusuf shook his head and spurred forward. As he reached the first head, he saw that it was impaled on a spear that had been planted in the ground. The head had belonged to an older man, with a long, greying beard. His mouth was stretched open in anguish, and his eyes had already been pecked out by birds, leaving black holes. Still, Yusuf recognized him.
‘Sabir ibn Taqqi,’ he whispered.
‘Why would anybody do such a thing?’ John asked as he rode up beside Yusuf.
‘It is meant to send a message.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of war.’
They rode through the forest of heads and came to the bodies. Most were gathered close together where they had fallen, bows and shepherd’s crooks still clutched in their hands. Hyenas moved amongst them, gorging on the dead. They ran off howling as Yusuf and his men approached. Yusuf reined in and sat staring at carnage. Then he saw movement amongst the bodies. ‘I think one of them is alive!’ he cried as he slid from his saddle.
Yusuf approached a pile of bodies, pulling a fold of his turban over his mouth and nose to keep out the foul smell. From under three dead Bedouin, he saw two eyes staring out at him. It was a boy, a knife clutched in his hand. ‘D-don’t come any closer!’ he cried out.
‘I am a friend,’ Yusuf said, kneeling a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder towards his men and shouted: ‘Quick, bring water and food!’ John handed him a waterskin, and Yusuf held it out towards the boy.
Slowly, carefully, the boy crawled out from under the dead. He was thin and dark, with wide eyes and short black hair. His face was covered with dried blood. The boy reached out and snatched the waterskin. He drank greedily. Then he dropped the waterskin and held out his knife. ‘You’re one of them!’ he hissed at John.
‘Easy, boy,’ Yusuf said. ‘One of who?’
‘The Franks. They came for our herds.’ The boy began to cry. ‘They killed my family – they killed everybody.’
‘You will have a new family now,’ Yusuf told him. ‘You will come with us to Aleppo, as a mamluk. You will learn to fight, and someday you will have your revenge against the Franks.’ Yusuf rose and turned towards John.
‘If the Franks did this,’ John said. ‘Then the treaty is broken, and that means-’
‘War,’ Yusuf finished for him.
‘There’s more,’ the boy said from behind them. Yusuf turned. The boy had dried his tears and once more gripped his knife in his hand. ‘I heard the name of their leader.’ He spat into the dust. ‘Reynald.’
Chapter 15
John jerked upright in bed, his heart pounding. The room was dark and the house quiet. He looked over at Zimat, who lay beside him. She stirred, blinking away sleep. ‘What is it?’ She yawned. ‘Another nightmare?’
John nodded. ‘I dreamt you were being stoned.’
‘It was only a dream,’ Zimat murmured, gently stroking his arm. ‘I am safe, here with you.’
John pulled away and moved to sit at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. ‘In my dream, Yusuf cast
